Cinders and Scars
by Tannin Tele
Summary: Harry rubbed his head, scar stinging fiercely. 'The Dark Lord can't be all bad, can he' the voice in his head whispered. 'He only hurt the people in his way, the people that hurt him . . . sounds familiar, doesn't it'
1. Once Bitten

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter One:**

 **Once Bitten**

 _Gentle reader, may you never feel what I then felt! May your eyes never s_ ** _h_** _ed such stormy, sc_ ** _a_** _lding, heart-wrung_ ** _t_** _ears as poured from mine. May you never appeal to_ ** _H_** _eaven i_ ** _n_** _prayers s_ ** _o_** _hopeless and so agonized as in that hour le_ ** _f_** _t my lips: for never may yo_ ** _u_** _, like me, d_ ** _r_** _ead to be the instrument of evil to what you wholl_ ** _y_** _love._ ** _*_**

\- Charlotte Brontë, _Jane Eyre_

* * *

 _October 31st, 1981_

"You're so loved, Harry, so loved . . . " Lily Potter could hear the front door bursting open.

She knew she shouldn't have trusted Peter. The man had always been too nervous, too cowardly to truly fit with the Marauders. After casting the Fidelius Charm, Lily tried to get close to the man in an attempt to understand him better. Her attempts were constantly rebuffed, until Lily was forced to concede. Peter, much like his animal side, was very good at slipping out of pressuring situations. Lily should have seen his evasion tactics as what they were: an attempt to distance himself from his once-best friends before they were all dead.

Unintelligible shouts filled the air, and Lily let out a soft sob as she saw a cast of green light from beneath the door frame. "James," she whispered, pulling out her wand. As Voldemort blasted open the door, the witch spared one last glance at her beautiful son. The boy's eyes were sparkling with tears as he clenched the bars of his crib.

Lily turned to her soon-to-be judge, jury and executioner, eyes bright and imploring. "Not Harry, not Harry, please, not Harry . . . " she pleaded desperately, quivering under the ruby gaze of Lord Voldemort.

"Stand aside, you silly girl," Voldemort warned, leveling his wand. "Stand aside, now. "

Lily shook her head frantically. "Not Harry, please no, kill me instead," Tears poured down her cheeks.

The Dark Lord's voice grew sharp with impatience. "Dear Severus spoke so highly of you," he drawled. "His _precious Lily_ ; if you've any Slytherin tendencies at all, you'd save yourself. This is my last warning."

"Not Harry! Please, have mercy. Not my son - I'll do anything. "

 _"Avada kedavra!"_ he intoned, almost bored.

Screams filled his ears, and a cruel smile blossomed on his face. The child was sobbing quietly, unable to comprehend the severity of the situation. "Pity," Voldemort murmured, pressing a foot into the woman's cheek. Her skin was pale and flawless, red hair hair bright while her eyes were dead to the world.

"Thrice defied me, eh? Such _bravery_ , such _valor_ ," he sneered. "Oh, how ever am I going to break the news to Severus? He was so fond of you, his little mudblood bitch. Well, I'm sure he'll get over it." With a dismissive flick of his robe, the Dark Lord stepped over the witch.

Lowering his gaze through the bars of the crib, Voldemort met the eyes of a small half-blood boy, his eyes an interesting shade of death-green. "I take no pleasure in slaughtering children," Voldemort confided to the brat, lifting his wand. "But war is war, and I will not be taken down by a mere child." Harry sniffed, his chest jerking fearfully.

"Ah, that's right. You can't understand me," the Dark Lord laughed harshly. "Never mind, I'll make this quick. Any last words, equal?"

The boy choked on his cries. "Mama," he whimpered. "Mama."

Voldemort sneered. "What a quaint sentiment. But don't worry your pretty little head over her, child; you'll see her soon enough. Sleep well, Harry Potter," Voldemort whispered. He slashed his wand. _"Avada kedavra."_

Light flashed. Pain seared. Magic filled the room, and everything went black.

"Peter?" a tight voice called out through a crumbling fireplace. A clock ticked in the background as Sirius Black declared his intent. "I'm coming through, you'd best be dressed!"

A vibrant green fire blared, ashes fluttering through the air as a slim figure emerged from the hearth. Sirius brushed the soot from his brown robes, raking a hand through his hair.

Brows furrowing as he took in the dark ambiance, Sirius immediately went on high alert. Pulling a long, straight wand from his inside pocket, Sirius gripped it tightly, stepping onto the faded rug. Pettigrew Place was a hovel compared to Grimmauld Place; the small, two-bedroom townhouse lie in a segregated part of Ilkley, made of brick and sticking charms.

The fact it was seemingly abandoned concerned Sirius.

Gone was the pile of comic books Peter kept on the coffee table, the bowl of chocolates and the tray of tea. On the mantel was a moving image of Peter and his dear mother; beside it was a framed picture of the Marauders, cracked down the middle as if it'd been thrown against a wall and hastily replaced. There were no clear signs of a struggle.

But everything was gone. As though Peter . . . had made a run for it.

 _"James,"_ Sirius breathed, swiveling on his heel and scrambling for the pot of left-over floo powder. "Bagshot Bungalow, Godric's Hollow!" He called out, jumping into the flames.

Sirius sucked in a breath as he appeared in the floo system of Ms. Bagshot, Lily and James' elderly neighbor. A shrill alarm sounded through the household and a bleary-eyed, stooped-back woman staggered from the kitchen.

"Oh!" the older woman gasped in surprise. She tightened a dull pink robe around her nightgown, hustling over to move the fireplace screen. "Mr. Black, is that you?" Bathilda asked, voice gravelly. "Thank goodness, someone ought to check the Potter Cottage; I could sense their wards shattering just a bit ago, and earlier this evening I heard a poor Muggle boy crying to his mother about a red-eyed monster."

Eyes widening, Sirius rushed past Bathilda, breaking out into the chilled front yard. Following the street lights, he skidded to a stop in front of the quaint Potter Cottage.

"No, no," he whispered, staring at the broken wrought-iron gate dangling from it's hinges. He stepped carefully onto the front path, limbs trembling with dread. The door had been blasted open, the moth-ridden porchlight flickering ominously. All was silent except for the harsh wind, bellowing through the gaping front door.

With a stubborn set to his shoulders, Sirius pressed forward.

Pictures were torn from walls, spell-fire burned into the floral wallpaper Sirius and James hated but Lily adored. Sirius jolted as a noise came from the toy bin; it was Harry's toy broomstick, quivering, as if in fear.

The couch had been torn in two, bits of cushion fluff settled on the ground alongside shreds of polyester. A bottle of milk had been upturned, gently trickling down the coffee table onto the carpet. With a twitch of his wand, Sirius cast the human-revealing charm. He gasped in surprise, registering at least two chimes of extraneous human presence. "James! Lily! Harry!" he bolted up the staircase, hope rising unbridled in his chest.

He came to a screeching halt, nearly tripping over the human leg sticking out behind the corner. "No. _No - "_ Sirius fell to his knees, cradling the cold body of his best friend. A strangled noise climbed up his throat. " James!" he sobbed.

In the nursery, another man could be found, head bowed.

"Lily," Severus Snape whispered over the cadaver of his childhood friend, reaching for his wand inside his robes. He had to leave; Black was like a bull in a teashop, stomping about without any respect for the dead. "I'm so sorry."

With a last, fleeting glance at those unseeing green eyes, Severus disappeared with a sharp crack, startling Sirius from his grief.

"Harry?" Sirius choked out, scrubbing the tears from his cheeks. "Lily?"

A long wail began, filling the air with the sound of pure, terrible loss. "Harry!" Sirius stumbled from the hall, eyes widening at the sight of a dilapidated nursery. _Canis Major_ sparkled above head, clearly visible through the cavity in the nursery ceiling. Sirius carefully stepped over chunks of broken wood and kneeled beside Lily's corpse. Her body was slumped beside the changing station, hair splayed in a halo-like fashion.

With trembling fingers, Sirius pressed his fingers to her throat, hoping desperately for the flutter of a pulse. His charms were never wrong. Someone else had been here; someone other than himself and Harry.

Sirius was torn from these thoughts as Harry sobbed, stark red blood dribbling down his forehead and darkening his white footie-pajamas. "Oh, Merlin," Sirius whispered, moving slowly to grasp his godson under the armpits. With a rap of his wand against Harry's dark curls, the stream of blood slowly closed up, leaving behind a peculiar red-rimmed scar.

After years of living with the most notoriously Dark family, the Blacks, Sirius knew a cursed scar when he saw one. Dark magic practically stewed within it, the vitriol magic only kept at bay by a soft sheen of what was clearly Lily's magical signature. He cradled Harry's dark-haired head to his chest, listening numbly to the boy's frantic mumbling.

"Pa'foo," Harry whimpered. "Mama . . . mummy, where mummy?"

Sirius swallowed, holding tight to the child's small torso. "Your mama's in a better place now. And you're safe. You're safe." His silver eyes never left Lily's splayed body.

The two were startled when a low keen sounded from down the stairs. Sirius glanced down at his charge, frowning. "Hush," he shifted Harry to his hip and grasped at his wand.

"Sirius?" came a trembling timbre, recognizable as their half-giant friend. Sirius relaxed minutely. "Ol' Bathilda said you were jus' here . . . "

"I am!" His voice cracked. "I've got Harry!"

Closing his eyes, Sirius forced himself to exit the nursery, a chill rushing through him as he passed James. "I swear, I'll avenge you," he whispered, holding Harry tight, the boy suckling his thumb anxiously. "I'll kill the slimy rat."

He bounded down the last few steps, greeting Hagrid at what remained of the front door. "Lily?" the man choked out, wringing a handkerchief in his large hands. "James?"

Sirius tersely shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.

With a burst of fresh tears, Hagrid sobbed into his kerchief. Harry looked frightened, whimpering softly, and Sirius awkwardly reached up to pat the half-giant's shoulder.

"Quiet, Hagrid - please, we must leave before the Muggles swarm," he whispered, tugging Hagrid out into the lawn. In the distance, he could hear the recognizable sounds of a police siren. "What are you even doing here? Where's Dumbledore, the Ministry?"

Hagrid blew his nose, visibly attempting to control himself. "Dumbledore sent me to fetch the lad," he sniffled, dabbing beneath his eyes.

Sirius' brow furrowed, anger burning within his chest. "It's a miracle Harry's alive. How did Dumbledore even know that You-Know-Who was here? I don't - "

Hagrid shrugged helplessly. "All I know is that if Lily 'n James were dead, Harry was to be sent to his relatives in Surrey."

"What? That's not Dumbledore's call to make; James assigned _me_ as godfather at the christening. Besides, Petunia and what's-his-face absolutely _despise Lily_. They wouldn't take Harry in if their lives depended on it."

"Now, surely that's not true," Hagrid defended. "Dumbledore knows what he's doin'. He thinks Harry will be safer with them Muggles, away from any remainin' Death Eaters and the Ministry, meddling in his business."

"I can keep Harry safe, too!" Sirius broke out. The raise of voice startled Harry, who let out a soft wail. Sirius immediately lowered his voice, pressing his lips to Harry's mess of dark hair. "He's safer with a trained wizard than any damned Muggle, especially if there is an attack. And it's what Lily and J - James wanted."

Hagrid's gaze softened. "I know it's hard," he soothed, a large hand grasping Sirius' arm. "But you've gotta do what's best for Harry. Dumbledore's got it all worked out - there's some sorta protection over the Muggle's home an' Dumbledore's got an Order member movin' in across the street. I'm sure Dumbledore will let you visit . . . but you've got to let him go for now, Sirius."

The man's grip momentarily tightened on his godson, his mind racing a mile a minute. "How did you get here? How do you plan to get to Surrey? Surely you won't take Harry through the Floo, his lungs aren't strong enough. And, sorry, but you can't apparate, can you?"

Hagrid's fuzzy lip twitched. "Hadn' thought of that. The Knight Bus, maybe?"

"No, Harry would holler the whole way. I've got a motorbike," Sirius blurted out. "It broke down a few weeks ago and I lent it to Lily, she's good at fixing the charms. It should be in the shed out back."

Beady eyes lit up. "Would'ya get it for me, Sirius? I'll take Harry."

Reluctantly, Sirius began to pass over the squirming child, only to have Harry clutch even tighter to his lapels. Smugly, Sirius settled the body back, sending Hagrid an apologetic look. "I suppose I'll wait here with him. Say goodbye, and all." He swallowed.

"A pair of wire cutters should be next to the shed, you can break the lock with them. My bike will probably be in front, you'll have to bring up the kickstand; the front wheel is busted, but it should fly just fine all the same."

The large man nodded and lumbered out into the yard, staring balefully up at the wrecked cottage roof.

"I'm so sorry, Prongslet," Sirius whispered, pressing his lips to the scarred forehead. "I'll come back for you." The siren wails came closer and Sirius could see Bathilda peering out from behind grey curtains, watching him shift awkwardly in the lamplight. "Hurry up, Hagrid," he hissed beneath his breath.

Metal clanked as his motorbike twisted midair, Hagrid looking slightly sheepish as he settled it onto the front walk. "I broke down the shed door," he explained. "Couldn't figure out the wire cutters."

"Not like anyone's here to care," he said, strained.

Hagrid blanched, nearly dropping the too-small riding goggles in his hands. "Righ'," Hagrid agreed, flushing. "Did'ya say yer goodbyes?"

Sirius looked down at his godson, brushing back his dark fringe to press his lips onto the flawed skin. "Yeah," he rasped. "Take him. Keep him safe."

Hagrid nodded exuberantly as he took the bairn in his arms, the layers of clothing cushioning the child's head. "I promise. Now, take care of yerself, Sirius," the man warned, revving the engine. "I'll return this in a few days, once everythin' blows over."

"That's fine," Sirius said dully.

Hagrid paused, gaze slightly wet. "Contact Peter and Remus, won't ya?" Sirius' eyes flashed at the thought of that traitorous vermin. "Maybe ya'll can visit Harry at the Dursleys - after he's settled, o' course. And, Sirius? I'm sorry 'bout James and Lily. They were good people."

The young wizard sucked in a long breath. "The best."

Hagrid nodded and started forward just as blue and red lights flashed down the street. The motorbike disappeared over the Potter cottage, Hagrid's large silhouette vanishing into the horizon. Sirius stood still in the yard, peering up at his best friend's house.

"I'll find him," he murmured, looking back up at the house with a solemn, determined look. "I'll find Peter, and I swear to Merlin I'll make him pay." A car door slammed and Sirius flicked his wand, disappearing with a sharp crack.

* * *

 _November 1st, 1981_

The sound of a bird cawing just outside their bedroom window woke Petunia Dursley née Evans quite abruptly from her pleasantly dreamless sleep. She blinked in confusion, a torpid stupor mentally weighing upon her. A slight pecking was made against the glass, two taps in quick succession as if to assure Petunia that the noise was not, in fact, apart of her imagination.

Petunia pressed her face into the mattress, hoping to all the _\- normal, socially acceptable -_ deities that if she just ignored the baleful annoyance, it would cease to exist. As if by magic (perish the thought!) , there was a brief pause in the bird's preaching.

Alas, it was clearly not to be. A sharp hoot pierced through the air, causing a fidgety Vernon to roll on his side and snort directly in his wife's ear. Hazel eyes snapping open, Petunia expelled a long, irritated breath and forced herself out of bed. Staggering to the windowsill, she impatiently pulled open the floral drapes, and stared, bewildered at the small brown owl peering up at her with wide, black eyes.

In one swift movement, Petunia had slammed open the glass and snarled at the creature. "Bloody pest, if you're one of those freakish 'messenger owls', I will wring you by the neck! We don't accept your kind here!" She flapped a manicured hand out the window and the owl lunged forward, nipping at her palm.

As Petunia let out a startled cry, the bird fled into the morning sky, joining the flocks of owls soaring over the orange skies. Indignation sweeping through her, Petunia brought her aching hand delicately to her chest. The cool Autumn breeze sent goosebumps up her arms, and she slammed the window shut with her good hand.

She stood very still for a long moment, watching her husband for any sign of awaking. Sighing in relief, Petunia swept from the room, retrieving her pink and white-spotted bathrobe that hung behind the door. A quarter hour or so later, the air was filled with warm steam, the washroom tiles glinting with condensation. Her reddened hand twisted the hot water faucet, a stream of clear liquid halting.

Petunia stepped out of the shower, staring insecurely into her reflection. Damp hair, pointed features, pink skin. She dutifully checked her bosom for lumps, and insured that she hadn't obtained any rashes over night. Water droplets slipped from her pale, stick-thin legs and onto the floor, echoing in the otherwise noiseless washroom. As she toweled herself off, Petunia winced in unspoken torture as the coarse material brushed against her raw skin. She had scrubbed perhaps a bit more than necessary, trying in vain to rid the filth the owl had no-doubt contaminated her with.

Running bony fingers through lank blonde hair, Petunia shuffled to the sink. By the time she had finished business, a pile of store-bought plastic curlers had been carefully sorted within their container, her toothbrush lying ramrod straight on the vanity shelf and a black comb cleared of loose hairlets.

Mouth tasting of mint and skin thoroughly lathered with lotion, Petunia dressed herself in lightweight day clothes. She padded into the hallway, the soft carpet tickling against her bare feet. As Petunia passed the long line of framed pictures, she absentmindedly straightened each one.

Eventually, she came to a stop at a door, six colored letters proudly declaring it to be _DUDLEY's_ nursery. Slowly twisting the knob, Petunia peered inside and crinkled her nose. The room was an utter mess. While her beautiful son lay peacefully in his 'big boy' bed, the floor was littered with stuffed toys, dirty clothes and a surprising amount of candy wrappers. Dudley's Halloween costume, which he'd reluctantly worn the night before, was wrinkled and stained with chocolate.

He currently wore a blue-striped set of pajamas, his chubby belly peeking out through a large gap in his nightshirt, the buttons partially undone. His round bottom was sticking straight in the air, a head of dishwater blonde curls burrowed into a downy pillow. A sausage-like thumb was jammed in his mouth and a stream of drool collected beneath his chin. Satisfied that the boy was sound asleep and undisturbed by her morning rituals, Petunia shut the door with a barely audible click. The child's snores reverberated through the wood, loud enough to rival her husband's.

Descending the stairs, Petunia tersely wandered into the kitchen, deciding to begin breakfast. Setting the stove and deftly cracking the eggs, she remembered the lovely pastry bread Mrs. Polkiss had made for their brunch several evenings ago. Feeling quite pleased that she'd needled the stubborn woman into giving up the recipe, Petunia went through the motions of mixing flour, yeast and sugar. Turning to the fridge, Petunia abruptly realized that she had used the last of the milk on the scrambled eggs. Shaking her head, she lowered the stove temperature and slipped on a pair of loafers.

Tightening her cardigan, she prepared herself for the brisk Autumn chill and opened the front door. Distracted by the sunrise, which seemed somehow brighter than usual, she bent down, expecting her fingers to catch on the cool metal case of milk bottles.

Instead, they brushed against something soft and most definitely alive.

She jerked away with a gasp, nearly falling backwards as she saw the tiny bundle lying on her doorstep. Cautiously, Petunia crouched low, brushing back the red and gold quilt to see the delicate face of a sleeping child. The child had a mess of black tangles, curling around his ears and tickling his nose.

Swallowing tightly, Petunia lifted the child, carefully cradling his head. She kicked the door shut and re-entered the family room, quickly preparing a pile of pillows on the couch to lay the babe within.

Eyes narrowing as she spotted the corner of a letter sticking out of the blanket, Petunia quickly snatched it away, as if afraid the child would bite. Holding the envelope in shaking hands, she instantly recognized the Headmaster's looping cursive, written in an odd emerald ink.

Petunia thought she'd heard the last of that man after receiving a gently-worded but extremely mocking rejection letter to that school so many years ago. Nostrils flaring, she tore open the envelope with no lack of bitterness. Rheumy eyes skimmed the parchment, halting for a moment, before reading it over. A helpless keen slipped past her lips as Petunia leaned back into the couch, a hand to her heart.

"V - Ver . . . Vernon!" She screeched. "Vernon, come quick!"

Within minutes, a large man came stomping down the staircase. Vernon Dursley was an extremely obese man, and even at the age of twenty-five, his comb-over and impeccably trimmed mustache was peppered with grey hairs. He held his old Smelting's stick aloft, poised in the air by thick, jiggling arms. "Wha' is it - " he slurred, blinking heavily, "Petunia? Wha . . . what's wrong? What is that?"

She turned fearful, red-rimmed eyes to the man she loved, hoping he'd have answers. "Lily," she croaked, tears dribbling down her cheeks. "It's Lily's son."

Vernon gaped unintelligibly at the small being. "Well, for God's sake - what's he doing here?" he hissed. His wife closed her eyes, a trembling hand rising to wipe at her cheeks, which were stained a furious red.

"My - my sister's dead, Vernon," she forced out in a broken voice. "And as much as I hate it, her brat is ours now. We're stuck with him."

"Mumma?" came a tired voice from the door frame.

"D - Diddykins," Petunia jerked up, seeing a head of soft blonde curls as Dudley peered into the room. He was suckling on his thumb, a ragged blanket dragging behind him. With the help of Vernon, Petunia shakily rose to her feet. Dudley waddled over to his mother, detaching himself from his thumb long enough to say, "Tum hurts. Wan' food."

"Oh, is my little one hungry?" she asked, remembering the half-made breakfast and rebuking herself for her forgetfulness. She pulled Dudley up onto her hip, allowing the boy to rest his head in crook of her neck. A cold trail of drool went directly down her shirt and she shuddered faintly. "Let's see what I can whip up in the kitchen."

"But I wan' food now!" Dudley's whined, bringing down his little fists. "Muma -"

Suddenly, Dudley let out a gasp, pointing a chubby finger at his cousin over his mother's shoulder. "Who 'dat? 'Dat baby?"

Petunia winced. "Yes, darling," she murmured. "That's a baby. But don't worry about the freak - I mean, the baby, dear. Daddy and I will take care of it." Once in the kitchen, he set Dudley into his high chair, fixing the straps and tenderly tucking in his rolls of fat.

As Harry began whimpering, slowly returning to consciousness, Vernon began to panic.

"P - Pet! What do I do with it?"

"Oh, goodness, put him in the cupboard and lock the door, I suppose. I'll feed him later. Just get him away!"

Nodding hurriedly, Vernon grabbed the child painfully beneath his armpits. With a startled yelp, the child blinked awake and Vernon rushed into the hallway. Dropped onto a pile of ratty pillows, Harry reached blindly towards the fat man who'd held him. "No - stay," Vernon commanded. Green eyes began to wet and Vernon slammed the door shut just as Harry's wails filled the air. "And stay quiet!"

The man stalked back into the kitchen, collapsing into a chair and accepting Petunia's offer of strong tea. "We're good people, aren't we, pet?" he mumbled, grimacing at the muffled caterwauling of their nephew. "This isn't some punishment for a past sin?"

"Of course we are, darling," Petunia said, spooning a bit of mash into Dudley's drool-coated mouth. "We certainly never asked for any of this."

What the Dursleys didn't realize was _neither did Harry._

* * *

 **THE LONDON GAZETTE**

Obituary: _James Potter and Lily Potter née Evans_

Husband and wife James and Lily Potter of Number Seven, Godric's Hollow, Cornwall were found dead at their home last night due to suspected foul play. Suspicious lights from the household caused neighbors to contact the constable.

Born in Cokeworth and beloved by all she met, Lily is survived by her son, Harry (2), her sister, Miss Petunia Dursley née Evans, and her nephew Dudley Dursley (2). No information on James Potter could be found. The funeral will be held on Saturday at 3:30 p.m. at the chapel of St. Jerome to the graveyard.

* * *

 ** _*'_** _Hell_ ** _hath no fury_** _like a woman scorned,'_ \- William Congreve, _The Mourning Bride_

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

'Once bitten, twice shy' is what the chapter title is referring to. I'd like to think it applies to Lily and James, who have been betrayed far too many times. Peter, someone she thought was a friend, makes Lily prepare for the worst. With her lost breaths, she defies Voldemort and protects her son by making the decision to give her life for his.

Hell certainly hath no fury like a woman scorned, indeed. Both Evans sisters have been scorned, but with the appearance of Harry tearing away Petunia's dream for an idyllic life, Petunia's fury will make Privet Drive hell for Harry.

Theme of poem: Tragedy


	2. Dread The Fire

**Cinders and Scars**

 **P** **art I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Two:**

 **Dread The Fire**

 _Some_ ** _th_** _ing's wrong in Pigeon-l_ ** _a_** _nd;_ ** _M_** _ankind w_ ** _e_ **_no longer trust;_ ** _S_** _hrinking fr_ ** _o_** _m the te_ ** _n_** _dered hand, pick we corn_ ** _f_** _rom out the dust; Wh_ ** _i_** _le on guileless pilg_ ** _r_** _im pat_ ** _e_ **_, Thinking that revenge is sweet, Soft I croon my hymn of hate, Drop my tribute and retreat._ ** _*_**

\- Robert William Service, _The Pigeons Of St. Mark's_

* * *

 _June 23rd, 1987_

Harry Potter was seven years old, and he was the Dursley's dirty little secret.

His parents, James Potter and Lily Evans-Potter had died in a car-wreck seven years prior on a cold October evening, with little Harry as the only survivor. He'd been gifted with a permanent scar above his right eye, the wound in the shape of a perfect lightning-bolt. This was just one thing among many that differed him from his relatives.

The Dursleys, despite living in a large house on the edge of Surrey, had several spare rooms; yet, supposedly, no space for a ruffian like Harry. Instead of having a bedroom like a normal boy, Harry slept curled up on his small, dank cot, sequestered in the cupboard under the stairs.

When he wasn't at Saint Gregory's Primary, which required the same unfitted green uniform for every boy, Harry wore threadbare hand-me-downs from his hefty cousin, Dudley. Dudley Dursley was the perfect mix of his parents, the snobbish Petunia and the cutthroat Vernon.

Where Harry was disgustingly skeletal, Dudley was obese and rather touched in the head, Harry thought. The two cousins couldn't be any more different, but sometimes Harry was rather glad of this. If he was as large as Dudley, Harry would never manage to slip into the sidelines. No one noticed him at school and his family often forgot about him entirely.

Such as today. It was Dudley's birthday. The 'special boy' had been taken to a swimming arena with his friends while Harry had been locked in his cupboard until they returned. When they did, Petunia had sent him to the garden so he wouldn't be underfoot while she cooked dinner.

It was exhausting work but, as the sun went down, a light breeze blew through Privet Drive thus cooling his skin. Harry's thoughts were dull as the shimmering sun disappeared into the horizon. A voice called out from the house, telling him to stop lollygagging.

Glasses slipping down a sweat-slick nose, he sighed.

His hands were buried deep into dry earth, specks of brown crawling up the pale skin of his arms. A patch of withered, purple-grey petals sat on his lap. It was a weed: dame's-rocket, if he was not mistaken. It was a wild flower that had grown free despite the bourgeois picket fence and the heavy coatings of weed killer dutifully sprayed each morning. It was a fighter - a survivor. Harry had yanked it by the roots without a second thought.

Pulling his arms from the cool earth, Harry tossed the pile of weeds into the waste bin. His nose wrinkled at the turkey carcass Petunia had skinned for supper.

Flipping the hair from his green eyes, the boy slunk through the back screen door, wiping his soiled shoes onto the mat. His aunt would have a conniption if he tracked dirt into the house again. Moving to the sink, he watched apathetically as grime and bits of leaf swirled down the drain, leaving his hands pale and wet. He wiped the water onto his shirt carelessly, moving toward the bread box.

He found a bit of smug reassurance in preparing his relative's meals.

They should know by now not to bite the hand that fed them . . . if he so pleased, he could slip in a still-wriggling worm into their gravy boat, or perhaps a chunk of that odd-looking fungi he'd found by the fence into their afternoon tea. However, the horrified look on Dudley's face after seeing a spider twitching in his sandwich was often not worth a red-faced Vernon bearing down on Harry's small figure, belt in hand.

With a clatter of heels, Petunia bustled into the kitchen, lips pink and hair pulled into a sparkling barrette. Harry finished slicing the bread loaf, laying the pieces artfully on a floral platter. Following her crooked finger-point, he fetched the sweet-smelling milk from the icebox and trailed his aunt into the dining area.

The table was already set, the 'birthday boy' at the head chair. His pudgy chins were wobbling at the sight of the three-layered cake sitting pompously on the garish tablecloth. "Ah, ah, ah, Duddikins," Petunia tutted fondly, placing a porcelain plate in front of her son. "Dinner first."

Vernon cleared his throat, Adam's apple bobbing. "What did you prepare for us, on this joyous occasion? Not everyday a boy turns seven, eh, son?"

Petunia sat primly. "I've made one of my mother's specials. Roast turkey with a side of corn - "

Harry tuned it out, ladling a spoonful of vegetables onto Dudley's plate.

"You know, earlier this week, I was looking through the attic," Petunia chattered, dishing herself. "Sifting through old news articles and vinyls - goodness, Vernon, remember our record player? Anyhow, I found some of mother's old cookbooks. She had notes on the margins, a bit of margarine here, some paprika there. I used to love her cooking, did you know?" Petunia told Dudley. "She taught me to cook when I was about your age. It was one of the only things she did with me, one of the only times mother looked at me with _pride_ in her eyes." Dudley boredly speared his turkey. "My sister," Petunia spat. "Was horrid at was cooking."

Harry startled at the mention of his mother. His grasp on the gravy bowl faltered and the liquid splashed onto the table cloth. The boy snatched up Dudley's napkin to sop it up, but in doing so, he disrupted Dudley's glass of milk.

As if in slow motion, it tipped to the floor, glass shattering on the carpet.

Harry sucked in a breath, the entire room filling with heavy tension. "You're such a bloody klutz, boy!" Vernon hissed, rising to his feet. Harry ducked instinctively as one large arm rose to deliver a swift backhand. "Ruining Dudley's special day!"

Clipped on the upper jaw, Harry tripped over a chair leg, ears ringing. A trembling hand rose to his reddened cheek.

Dudley cheered. "You get'em, Dad!"

Sighing, as though it was a great concession on her part, Petunia placed a slender hand on her husband's bicep. "Oh, Vernon," she said soothingly. "We're enjoying our dinner. Just send him to the kitchen."

Vernon sniffed imperiously, sitting himself down. "Quite right, dear," he took a quick gulp of milk to calm himself. "Get up off the floor. Clean this up, will you? Oh . . . and no dinner for you, tonight."

Harry tremulously plucked up the shards with the bottom of his shirt. In the kitchen, he dropped the glass into the trash and leaned against the counter. He wiped his wet cheeks and began to scrub at the pots and pans. He let the heat scald him, his skin molting like a snake's.

An hour later, Harry was absently scraping dried turkey off of a plate. He was feeling a bit better, the pain in his cheek fading. As he struggled to erase a particularly stubborn spot of gravy, Harry was entirely unaware of the floating dishware behind him.

A sentient dishcloth was drying the dishes, swiping inside a cup to soak up every last drop of moisture. Just as Harry was finishing the last pan, Petunia had wandered into the kitchen and screamed like a banshee.

Harry, understandably startled, jumped violently. Every last piece of floating dish shattered to the floor, the dishcloth tearing itself into shreds.

The two stood alone in the kitchen, the television and Dudley's snorted laughter running loud in the background. Petunia glanced frantically between her nephew and the shards of white marring the clean tile. Her face was spectacularly pale, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water. Harry rather thought her expression would have been funny in another circumstance.

 _Any_ other circumstance.

What remained of the plates went forgotten as Petunia stepped forward, her expression pinched in swiftly growing anger. Before Harry could even begin stammering apologies, Petunia had taken her nephew by the throat, slamming his small body against the wall. Snarling under her breath about _freaks_ and _abnormal devil children,_ her fingers tightened, digging into his trachea.

Harry choked on air, frantically clawing at her arms. "P - please," he rasped, lips turning blue. She let him drop to the floor, letting out a long hiss. He gasped out for air, massaging the bruises around his throat. The boy stared up at his aunt with panicked, _glowing_ green eyes; eyes eerily reminiscent to another child Petunia once knew.

As much as Petunia wished to _tear_ out those disgustingly _freakish_ eyes out of his skull, she restrained herself, glaring darkly.

"Go to your cupboard," Petunia snapped, hands trembling at her side. " _Now."_

Harry scrambled.

* * *

 _Later_

In his six short years at the Dursleys, Harry had made friends with the spiders that lived in his shoes. He lay on his stomach, watching a small black spider twitch above his head. Harry stared down the creature, letting his thoughts float and twine, much like the web of the arachnid.

Harry wondered. If he could make dishware float, what else could he do?

"Come down," he breathed.

Slowly, cautiously, the spider lowered himself from his web, his clear silk strand was near invisible in the darkness. Watching as the spider struggled, Harry lifted a finger in invitation, hovering millimetres beneath the arachnid. All eight of the legs latched onto Harry's forefinger, pressing lightly into the pale flesh as he scuttled down the length of Harry's arm, dancing a short diddy.

Further confirming his abilities, Harry whispered, holding still. "Onto the pillow," The spider hurried over to Harry's frayed pillow, it's legs tangling in the fibered texture.

Finally, it settled down by Harry's poised elbow. "W - wave a leg," His smile disappeared as the spider once more complied.

He really _was_ freakish.

Harry blinked away the sudden tears that flooded his eyes.

The diminutive child dragged up his legs, resting his head against knobbly knees. A slightly hysteric laugh threatened to bubble forth, and Harry stifled it by biting his hand. He wanted his mother. All he could remember of his life before the Dursleys was the brush of crimson hair against his cheek, the barking of a dog and booming laughter.

Sometimes he dreamt of the car wreck; memories of shrill screams, sparkling glass and blaring lights startling him into wakeful tears. He thought he could hear her in his dreams sometimes, whispering sweet nothings. "You're so loved, Harry. . . so loved." The words would quickly escalate to pleas of; _"Not Harry, please, not Harry. I'll do anything . . ."_ He huddled beneath this thin blanket and wondered to himself;

 _Why couldn't I have died with them?_

Years ago, Harry might've wished that someone would notice his pain. Now, after six years of victimization, Harry learned that he could rely on no one but himself.

Curling in on himself, he noticed that the spider he'd been playing with was writhing, twisting and stumbling as if in pain. Harry couldn't stand to watch it anymore. Very slowly, careful not to startle the arachnid, he pinched it between his fingers and put it out of it's misery.

How he wished someone would do the same for him.

 ** _You don't need them, Harry,_** a dark voice whispered to him. **_You don't need_** **anyone** **_._**

He blinked. The voice was right.

The boy thought for a moment, making a quick decision.

Carefully, Harry slid off his cot and lowered to his hands and knees. The ground was freezing cold. Thin fingers shook faintly as he fumbled for a matchbox beneath his bed frame. Pushing back the pile of ugly rags beneath his bed, he picked up the brown box. After a few fumbled times, Harry struck a match. His skin glowed orange as the light flickered, the musky smoke tickling his nostrils.

Harry tested the door lock, nose crunching in frustration. His aunt must have locked it. **_Those filthy Muggle degenerates._**

Harry pushed back those thoughts, eyes darting to a twisted nail on the ground. Sticking the clip into the lock hole, he spent a good few minutes fidgeting before the mechanics clicked into place.

The front hallway was lit by a blue-grey hue. Harry crept forward, avoiding the creaky wooden planks. His footsteps were painstakingly light, his breath barely detectable among the usual creaking and whistling of the household.

Outside the living room, a tree waved in the wind, causing moon rays to across the floor and walls. Framed photographs hung straight on silver nails, showing Dudley in various stages of childhood. Harry tilted his head, trying to read the headline of a folded

newspaper placed on armrest of Vernon's chair. _'Rioting in Chappeltown . . .'_

The voice in his head snorted. **_They're so fickle._**

Harry had to bite his tongue to resist speaking the words out loud. The voice had been appearing more and more frequently, usually having something derogatory to say about the Dursleys or mankind in general. Harry was beginning to suspect his inner voice was a bit of a nihilist - a word he barely knew the meaning of, but the voice itself provided.

The match was nearly burnt out, the light singing his fingertips. Harry calmly reached toward the ash tray, positioning one of Vernon's cigar stubs beneath the newspaper.

With the last flutter of match light, he lit the paper on fire.

It burnt slowly, the corners turning brown and crisp. A black-and-white photo of a burning shop shriveled into ash. Thin tendrils of smoke rose higher, a glowing cinder floating onto the armchair. The flames grew, the temperature rising with it.

The voice in Harry's head flickered and shifted, it's laugh echoing.

A soft beeping began above Harry's head. The boy swore, snatching a fire poker. He jabbed wildly at the ceiling. Harry wasn't very tall, but the poker managed to knock the fire alarm to the ground, it's wires sticking out from the ceiling.

 ** _Go,_** the voice whispered. **_You can leave._** Harry backed out of the room just as the window curtains caught aflame. It was spreading, nearly engulfing the entire lounge. **_Go, Harry!_** The voice demanded. The boy was lingering too long.

At this point, Harry was simply tired. He felt drained. He desperately wanted to sleep, to dream of something other than this. And right now, his cupboard was very, very welcoming. Maybe the fire would surround him. Maybe the flames would burn through his body, creating a hot, heady warmth like the embrace of a mother. He certainly hoped for that.

Harry stumbled to his cupboard, turning his back to the firelight.

He shut the door behind him and curled onto his cot. The voice protested loudly in his head, hissing swear words that Harry didn't recognize. The crackle and sizzle of the distant flames lulled Harry to sleep, allowing him to dream of fire-like hair and the tender voice of his mother.

If Harry heard the screams of his relatives, he simply let it wash over him; after all, he was entirely safe in his little haven beneath the stairs.

* * *

* _'Set the **Thames on fire** ,' - _Jane Austen, _Persuasion_

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

The title is referencing to this idiom: 'a burnt child dreads the fire'. Living in an abusive home, Harry has certainly been 'burned' more than once. No matter what he does, he knows that the Dursleys will never accept him . . . he soon makes them dread the fire within him.

To 'set the Thames on fire' is to achieve something amazing, something infamous.

Theme of poem: Revenge


	3. Wicked Things

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Three:**

 **Wicked Things**

 _There walke_ ** _d_** **_a_** _lonely_ ** _m_** _a_ ** _n_** _, sil_ ** _e_** _nt, mute, the only man_

 _Not knowing how, not knowing why was he the sole survivor_

 _Why shoul_ ** _d_ **_he be alive, brea_ ** _t_** _hing still while_ ** _o_** _thers died_

 _And the only question, why was_ ** _he_ **_the so_ ** _l_** _e survivor?_

 _So_ ** _l_** _e survivor, cursed with second sight_

 _Haunted savior, cried into the night._ ** _*_**

\- Blue Oyster Cult, _Sole Survivor_

* * *

Harry scratched at the table in front of him, dull nails scraping over unpolished oak. He could hear voices in the hall; the child welfare officer and Mother Magdalena, the orphanage matron. If Harry raised his head, he might see the tip of a black cowl peeking through the skinny window in the door.

"He's just a boy, Mother Magdalena," Missus Rachel, the social worker, tried to defend him. "And he needs a home."

"Just - just a boy!" Mother Magdalena screeched. She was quickly hushed, but her attempts at whispering were in vain. Harry could hear her voice pitching, speaking in tangents about _'demonic possession' and 'unnatural abilities'._

She and his aunt would get along swell. Correction; _would_ have.

"He's a _witch!_ " Mother Magdalena blustered. "He must be."

"Now, now," Missus Rachel soothed. "That's preposterous. He's survived quite the ordeal, it's more of a _miracle_ than anything," she stressed the word. Mother Magdalena was silent after that. Harry tried to ignore them, taking in a trembling breath. He looked around.

The room was decorated in tans and blues, tall bookshelves lining the walls. Several files were laid out on the matron's desk, but before he could pry, the door swung open. The women walked in, looking somber. Mother Magdalena was avoiding his eyes. Missus Rachel's lips were quirked, however, in triumphance.

"Harry," the social worker spoke softly. She was very tan, with kind eyes and brown hair so tightly bound that it was uncomfortable just looking at it. Harry tried to avoid her eyes, unwilling to glance into that too-familiar, faux-maternal countenance. "I've good news, Harry. Mother Magdalena has agreed to take you in. You should be very grateful to Mother Magdalena."

Harry remained silent.

"We tried to contact your aunt," she faltered. "Your uncle's sister, Marjorie Dursley, that is, but - "

"She doesn't want me," Harry finished for her.

Missus Rachel's expression softened. "She's in mourning, Harry. It must be very difficult for her to come to terms with this tragedy."

Harry sniffed, brushing an arm across his face.

Missus Rachel laid a tentative hand on his shoulder. "You will be happy here, Harry, among other children who _understand_. And who knows! You might be adopted within the year!" Harry could practically imagine his dead cousin, sneering. _Who would want_ you _?_

The boy laid his head down on his arms, squeezing his eyes tightly.

* * *

No one knew how he survived.

When the firemen had gathered at what remained of Number Four early the next morning, they'd been astonished to see that the cupboard beneath the stairs - and Harry, by extension - had been completely unscathed by the roaring fire. Harry had been fast asleep when warm arms had dragged him out of the smoldering mess that was his childhood home.

There had been whispers of _abuse_ and _negligence,_ as why else would a seven-year old be trapped in a cupboard for the night? Everything passed by in a blur, Harry unable to explain to the firemen _'the voice in my head told me to set the fire'._ In the end, Harry's precautions the night before led them to believe the fire was started by a misplaced cigar.

Vernon wasn't around to refute the claim.

Harry had watched, emotionless, as three stretchers were carried out of the house. White sheets had been placed over the bodies. It wasn't difficult to identify them, as Vernon and Dudley's bodies required several extra men to transport them.

Apparently, by the glass shards embedded in Petunia's front, she had tried to escape through the window. Harry tried to imagine it, but couldn't.

Petunia would never have left her son to suffer. She must have awoken when her lungs became saturated with smoke, causing the frail woman to jerk awake. Vernon was short to follow, and in a panic, he tossed her through the window, screaming at her to get to safety. Petunia didn't survive the fall.

Vernon didn't know this as he ventured the flames to grab his son. Dudley's room was entirely blocked off, the ceiling collapsed in front of the entrance. The boy's room, cluttered with junk, easily went heavy man had tried to move the chunks of ceiling from his path, his hands burning and bubbling morbidly. Pain ruptured through him, and he fell to his knees, coughing. And, just like that, Vernon died.

 _They_ all died.

Leaving Harry as the sole survivor.

Harry cried into Missus Rachel's shoulder as she broke this to him, the only one willing to approach the 'miracle' child. She might have thought this an expression of mourning for the only family he ever knew - abusive or not.

But Harry was crying because he _wanted it to be him._

* * *

 _July thru August, 1987_

Daylight streamed through a yellowing windowpane, the view distorted by grime and one very large spider that dangled from the wooden frame. Harry watched it from his position on the window seat, his arms wrapped around his knees.

"Harry? Are you decent?" came a call from outside his door. "It's Louisa."

Jolting up from his lax position, Harry hurriedly tucked in his dress shirt and smoothed his trousers. There was another knock at his closed door. "Harry?"

"Come in," he replied. The door opened with a long creak, revealing the young mistress who assisted Mother Magdalena. The woman had short, plaited black hair and very dark skin. Her eyes were heavy-lidded and tired, lips dried and peeling from anxious gnawing.

"Hello Harry," she began shyly, tugging on the sleeves of her grey dress. "Have you finished all your homework?"

Harry blinked, glancing at his cluttered desk. "Um - yes, of course," he lied.

"Good, good," the woman puttered about a bit longer, clearly working up to something.

"Well, it seems that Davie has come down with the flu and is unable to finish his chore list, so I was wondering if you could help out by taking out the trash bag?"

"It's raining," Harry said plainly, jerking a head toward the grimy window. "I'd probably catch the flu going out in that weather." It was true - the glass pane was rattling from the pressure of the wind, the outdoor gutters filling with a muffled swooshing sound.

"Yes, well, you won't be out long, I'm sure. It's just, the other children are doing their school work and Mother Magdalena is - ah, resting - and I've got to feed little Hannah, so - " **_Oh, she's 'resting', is she?_ ** Harry's inner voice sneered. **_Resting off a hangover, most likely._**

Harry forced on a smile. "Are there any rain-boots in the closet of my size?"

Face lighting up, Louisa lifted a finger and rushed from the room. Harry was amused at the hasty exit. It was awfully boring in the orphanage and the woman's skittishness made him laugh.

Harry stood and approached his wardrobe, pulling on a brown overcoat, the sleeves littered with loose threads. Louisa came bustling in, holding a pair of stained black rubber boots between her thumb and forefinger. "Will these do?" she asked anxiously, front teeth dragging in her bottom lip.

"They'll be fine," Harry assured, grabbing the shoes and shoving them on. Louisa let out a breath of relief, until a shrill wail erupted from the nursery.

"Oh dear." she paled. "That'll be Hannah. Thank you, dear."

Out the back door, Harry yanked his hood up and stepped out in the back alley. A tall fence surrounded the small space, a cobblestone path leading to a dreary brick shed. From above, raindrops fell from thunderous clouds, splashing onto the leaves of Mother Magdalena's shrubbery.

The boy dragged the garbage to the large dumpster between the orphanage and the shop next door. Just as he heaved the bag over the rim, Harry slipped on a puddle. His hood fell back and streams of rainwater traveled, cold and wet down the contours of his face. Mud streaked through his hair, the wavy strands tangling with one another, plastering his short fringe to his forehead.

"Bugger," he hissed, disgusted. He clenched onto the metal rim of the rubbish bin and pulled himself up, but it was in vain. His feet had begun to sink into the mud. Struggling weakly, the mud squelching, the voice snapped.

 ** _Enough of this._** A tingling sensation built up in the back of his head, giving him a slight migraine. The ground shuddered, the rain seeming to slow midair. Swiftly refocusing, Harry urged the dirt to rise higher, collecting into a floating orb of dirt and water. The effort to move it even a few feet was tiring, but he managed to inch it over the tangled mess of Mother Magdalena's bush hedges.

Harry let it collapse, mud and muck cascading across the green branches. Stomping his liberated rain boots, dirt was splattered across the hemline of his trousers.

 _"Goodness me!"_ Someone shouted, their voice sibilant and fearful. _"Ah! Ah, help!"_

Harry jumped up in surprise.

 _"I'm here! Help me!"_

Tentatively, he approached the plant and peered down, spotting a wriggling serpent. The branches of the shrub formed a tightly-knit cage, surrounding the animal like a cocoon. **_Speak to it._**

 _"Don't panic,"_ Harry advised the adolescent black-and-white adder. _"I'll get you out."_ He took a moment to wonder how he and the snake were even managing this conversation, but decided that some things were more important.

Harry began searching the dirt around. Letting out a triumphant sound, he grasped at a short stick, maneuvering it within the assemblage of vines. _"Grab on, little snake . . ."_

 _"Not an easy task!"_ the adder grumbled. Nonetheless, it twirled his tail around a knob in the branch, allowing itself to be lifted.

Harry settled onto the ground, cross-legged, and inspected the serpent. _"Are you okay?"_

 _"Of course I'm not!"_ it snapped out, flicking it's tongue in irritation. _"I'm cold, wet, and tired! And_ someone _destroyed my lovely, warm burrow!"_

Harry winced. _"I'm sorry,"_ the serpent bared her teeth. _"Are . . . are you poisonous?"_

 _"I'm venomous, you fool. And I_ will _bite if you do not set me down."_

 _"Oh,_ " Harry muttered, complying. _"What if I find you a place, warm and dry, to stay until the rain stops?"_ He gestured toward the orphanage. Just like the surrounding buildings, it was stout and ugly, made of old brick, cracking mortar and crushed hopes and dreams. Thorny vines climbed up the side, burrowing its way through the cracks. It wasn't much, but it was all Harry had. _"Will you bite me then?"_

 _"I . . . suppose I could spare you,"_ she hedged. _"I need food, though! A juicy vole will do, or a sparrow, if you can find it."_

 _"We're having ham sandwiches for lunch. I could get you a slice."_ Harry suggested.

Curved skull tilting, the serpent considered. "It'll _have to do. Is it a fresh pig?"_

 _"Probably not,"_ Harry admitted. _"But Louisa's making it, so there's it won't be entirely rancid."_

 _"'Louisa'?"_ the adder asked, testing the word.

 _"That's her name."_ at it's blank stare, Harry elaborated. _"We recognize each other by what we call ourselves."_ The creature let out a thoughtful noise. Harry held out his fingers, allowing the adder to lick the pale skin. _"What are you doing?"_ he shivered at the wet sensation.

 _"Familiarizing your scent."_ the adder mumbled, smacking its lips. _"This is how we recognize our nest-mates. Snakes do not have these 'names', but they sound useful."_

Harry smiled. _"My name is Harry."_

 _"Harry,"_ she flicked out her tongue. _"Will you name me, human Harry?"_

The boy was silent for a moment. _"At my old school, I overheard the librarian speaking of an ancient Greek sea monster. It was a snake-like creature with six heads that would gobble up sailors as they crept past her island. Her name was Scylla. Do you like that?"_

Scylla made a pleased hiss. _"Seems suitably fear-inspiring. You must tell me the story of these sea monsters."_

Harry laughed, the sound foreign coming from his mouth. _"I'm sure I can spare the time."_

As he read aloud from _The Odyssey_ , Harry gently stroked Scylla's nose. The serpent was resting lazily on his wrist, tongue flicking out hungrily every few minutes.

Soft shouts and jeers sounded from outside his bedroom window. He glanced up from the book nestled on his thighs to see a group of uniform-clad boys chatting amicably in the street. He sighed, an intense longing burning through his chest.

 _"Shut the window,"_ Scylla murmured just then, curling against his skin. _"It's drafty in here."_ Harry bit his lip and eyed the sun, peaking out from behind a cloud.

 _"How about we could go outside, so you could bask in the sun for a bit? Maybe hunt some mice."_

Scylla rumbled. _"This is acceptable."_

Becoming excited, Harry swept over to his wardrobe and pushed a grey cap onto his head. He crept through the halls of the orphanage, avoiding two screaming toddlers that dashed past his feet. The communal area was a mess, toys and books scattered across the scratched floor. Louisa was rocking a young infant, smiling encouragingly as a pig-tailed girl read through her story book.

Stepping outside, Harry snatched a rubber ball as it rolled past. _"I smell food_." Scylla hissed gleefully. She slithered out of his sleeve and into the grass, her black body disappearing under some bushes.

On the pathway was two girls, their hair was plaited prettily and their skirt pristine. They were playing a game consisting of crudely-drawn numbered blocks on the cement. Laughingly, they sang some ditty and hopped from foot to foot..

Loitering by the streetlamp was a group of boys, their uniforms skewed and socks yanked to the ankles. They were speaking loudly to each other, smirking in that cruel way Harry's uncle and cousin often had. Fingering the elastic ball tucked in his pocket, Harry slowly approached them.

"Oi," one of the boys had seen him, his blonde hair swept back into a cap. "Who're you?"

Another boy with crooked front teeth rose from the curb, brushing the fringe from his eyes. "You deaf or just daft?" he barked out. "Leon asked you a question, kid."

"I'm not daft," Harry defended. "My name is Harry. Yours?"

The boy spat to the side. "Rupert," he said shortly, eyeing Harry up and down. "That's Davie 'n Leon." A broad-shouldered, tanned boy bared his teeth, unnerving Harry deeply. "You're the new kid, aren't you? Always hiding in your room?"

"Um," Harry hedged, "Yes. I've seen you playing catch from my window. Can I play with you? I found your ball."

Rupert considered him. After an unnerving wait, he grinned. "Sure," he snatched the ball from his hands. "Ever play keep-away? It's fun. Rules are, we hold the ball and try to keep it from you. Simple enough. Here, catch!" Over Harry's head, Rupert tossed the ball. He ducked.

Rupert grinned tauntingly. "You _want_ to catch the ball, you dolt! Try again!"

Frustrated, Harry watched the ball sail at unspeakable heights. Tired of leaping widely - and looking quite ridiculous too, as the boys laughed uproariously each time - Harry decided to play dirty. Waiting until the smallest boy had seized the ball, Harry dived, knocking the ball from Leon's grimy hands.

Triumphant, Harry rolled onto the asphalt. Leon landed on his back into a nearby bush, screeching in surprise. Halting in their jeers, Davie and Rupert stared at him in surprise. Leon scrambled to his feet, fuming. His anger was rather mitigated by the leaves and brush littering his hair. "You little _brat_ -"

"Come on, Lee," Rupert teased. "Are you upset the _baby_ beat you?"

Harry huffed. "I'm _not_ a baby!"

"No, you're a _-_ " Leon scrambled. "You're a _-_ a _nancy!_ A _fairy!_ Harry the fairy!"

Harry pursed his lips, sending an idle glance to the hop-scotching girls. "Say; I wonder what those girls over there would think, seeing you all scream like ninnies and wetting your pants in fear."

"Fear?" Rupert scoffed. "Of what? A _freak_ like you?"

"No," Harry said evenly. "I don't know if you noticed, but when you fell into that bush you landed on a rather hungry adder. I daresay she wishes to say hello." He smiled in a decidedly unpleasant way. _"Say hi, Scylla!"_

At his words, Scylla darted out from the bushes, hissing violently at the boys. She snapped at Leon's heels. "Sn - snake!" Leon screeched, darting away. Rupert and Davie were soon to follow.

 _"Nasty humans,"_ Scylla grumbled, twining around Harry's feet. Harry had to agree.

 _"Come here, pretty,"_ he bent down to grab her. _"Did you eat enough?"_ Her stomach was heavy with her meal. The serpent hissed contentedly.

As Harry made his way back inside, he kicked at the rubber ball in frustration. From their place on the curb, the two girls were murmuring among themselves, staring at him with a mixture of fear and suspicion.

" - one is able to imagine the despair the people felt after their grand capital city was torn into ruins. Faith and hope were scant, spoken of as a distant memory." Mother Magdalena was conducting her Sunday sermon, peering down at the circle of orphans sitting cross-legged on the floor of the communal room. "Nehemiah realized the urgency of the situation and prayed for the King to grant him - " the matron halted abruptly. Mother Magdalena was middle-aged, dressed in a drab cotton scapular and cowl, covering her hair and casting her features into dark shadow.

"Who are you speaking to, boy?" Mother Magdalena snapped out, startling Harry from his muted conversation with Scylla.

She was wriggling anxiously, tightening around his wrist. Dark curls flew as Harry shook his head. "No one, ma'am." He tried to slip the snake away.

"What is that, hiding in your shirt?" the matron moved to tower above him.

The girl behind him gasped, spotting the flicker of a tail. "It's a snake, mother!"

Yelping and scrambling away, the children knocked over a pile of books, uncovering a vent. It blasted cold air through the room, sending a chill down Harry's spine.

"Calm down, no need for panic," Mother Magdalena tried to soothe them. "Undo your sleeves, boy."

"There's nothing," he insisted. Scylla was usually very well behaved, but as the autumn season crept in, she was constantly chilled. She had _pleaded_ to stay close to Harry today, soothed by his body heat. Scylla, noticing his heartbeat quicken, tightened her grip around his wrist. She was ready to spring, if needed.

"We'll see about that," the matron pressed forward. "Do as I say. I won't ask again."

 _"Hide,"_ Harry whispered urgently, uncuffing his sleeves so that Scylla could slip further into his shirt. He rolled up his sleeves, revealing pale wrists. "I _clearly_ don't have a snake, mother," his teeth were gritted. "May we continue the lesson?"

The mother wouldn't tear her eyes from Harry's shirt, searching for suspicious lumps or the like. The boy shivered, unnerved.

"Fine," she said finally. "But I do not want you disturbing my class any longer. If you do so again, you'll be staying with me during lunch for detention." She turned back toward the blackboard. Harry let out a relieved breath, immediately fixing his uniform.

"He _must_ have a snake, Mother Magdalena!" someone cried from the back of the room. Harry turned around, wincing. It was Leon, sitting beside Rupert and Davie. "He sicced it on me just a few days ago!"

The matron's back tensed. "Leon Mitchell . . . " she said warningly.

"It's true!" another girl spoke. Harry recognized her as one of the hopscotching girls. "He kept the snake, I saw him bring it inside!"

Harry hunched his shoulders, feeling cool scales writhe nervously against his ribs. She had settled just above his hips, in the concave dent there.

"Mr. Potter!" the woman called to him. "Come here."

Breath hitching, Harry slowly rose to stand. The matron tapped her foot impatiently "I certainly _hope_ these accusations are false, but if not, this is a very serious situation. Remove your top. _Now._ "

Slowly, he began to remove his tie, settling it across his arm. His vest followed. He watched the matron, hoping the woman would change her mind. When Harry finished unbuttoning his top, Scylla let out a sharp hiss, falling into his hands.

The other children were squalling in terror, Leon crowing triumphantly. "I _knew_ it!"

Before he could blink, Mother Magdalena was suddenly in his face, hand on his chin. Everyone stilled. Harry was hardly breathing.

"You filthy _liar,_ " the woman murmured. With a sharp slap, she struck Harry across the cheek. Harry stumbled back, clutching a furious serpent to his chest. "Set down the serpent, boy. I'd hate to see you punished for disobeying me further."

"She's my friend," Harry said tremulously. "She won't hurt me, or anyone, I swear."

"Will you just _listen_ to me, you negligent child?!" the matron yanked at Harry's arm.

At the sudden movement, Scylla leapt. Her fangs tore into the woman's wrist.

Mother Magdalena screeched, swinging her arm around. Scylla fell to the ground, thin form twisting in the air. She made protesting hisses and tried to flee as the matron stomped her foot.

"Stop! Stop!" Harry shouted in alarm. "You'll hurt her!"

The matron was flabbergasted, face an angry shade of red. "Hurt it! It's a dangerous _beast,_ you ignorant - " her foot came down.

 _"Leave her alone!"_ Harry screamed, shoving at the woman. The matron was slammed against the wall, skull cracking. She choked on air, frantically clawing as an invisible hand tightened around her throat. Harry's eyes darkened, a pleasant thrum entering his body as she kicked her legs. From her waistband, a miniature bottle of brandy fell to the ground, shattering. The golden liquid pooled at her feet.

"Stop! Let her go!" Hearing his classmate's sobbing gasps, Harry abruptly dropped his hand. The woman was unconscious, her throat bruised red and purple.

Pale faced, Harry followed a trail of blood leading to the floor vents. It seemed Scylla had got away. "You - you - _"_ Leon stammered, on his feet. "You're a freak!"

"I didn't - " Harry said in a broken voice, looking at the scared orphans. He couldn't find one friendly face. "I didn't mean . . . "

 _"What do I do?"_ he whispered, using his fear and desperation to bring forward the darkness. **_Oh, so_** **now** ** _you need my help,_** the voice sniped, petulant.

Harry's eyes flooded with tears. _"P . . . please."_

The voice was silent. After a moment, it sent a comforting warmth through him, his skin heating up and forming at his palms. **_They don't deserve it, the rotten muggles,_** the voice muttered. Nonetheless, a soft glow erupted from Harry's hands.

The other students gaped, white light flooding their vision. Harry shielded his eyes and soon the glow dissipated, leaving the children to slump, staring dazedly into space.

 ** _Now the matron,_** Harry directed his hands toward Mother Magdalena's neck. Palms warming, the bruises on her neck began to clear, mottling purple and green before fading. Drained, Harry was left with nothing but a faint tingle in his scar. He tugged on his shirt and quickly did his tie, not particularly wishing for a reprimand regarding his state of dress.

After a few minutes, which Harry used to calm himself, the matron blinked awake. She rubbed her head in faint confusion. "What . . . what's this about?" she slurred.

"You took a fall, ma'am," Harry said in a deathly cool tone. "We were all very worried." Groggy eyes swiveled around the room dubiously, spotting the flecks of Scylla's blood on the ground. "That's from your head," Harry said, helping her up. "I had to move you so I could check your head." The woman, her frail body trembling, seemed to buy it. She hobbled over to her desk, sitting down with a bewildered expression. "Mother? Should I fetch Louisa?" Harry asked politely.

"No. I will be fine," her voice was rough. The woman coughed, schooling her expression. "I think there has been enough excitement today for everyone. You're dismissed, children. Louisa has prepared your breakfast, do try not to cause a commotion, hm?"

The children jumped to leave, stumbling in disorientation before shaking it off. They created a wide birth around Harry, fear coursing through them. For some inexplicable reason, they felt the need to avoid Harry Potter like the plague:

Strange things always seemed to happen around him.

Funny thing was, they couldn't remember exactly _what._

* * *

 ** _* 'Damned to hell'_**

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

Survivor's guilt is perhaps what is most oppressing to our hero, even more than his murder of the Dursleys. With 'wicked' having more than one connotation in British slang, Harry is both in awe and horrified of his inner power.

Theme of poem: Survival


	4. Damaged Goods

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Four:**

 **Damaged Goods**

 _'Arise,' it seems to say: 'Behold_ ** _a_ **_nother day to grasp the_ ** _golden_ **_key of Opportunity; To turn the magic lock-_ ** _Tick_ **_-tock! Anoth_ ** _e_ **_r day to gain some goal you sought in vain;_ ** _t_ **_o sing a sweeter song, perchance to right a wrong; To win a height unscaled Where yesterday you failed; To brave a battle shock, tick-tock_ ** _!_ **_'_ ** _*_**

\- Robert William Service, _Tick-Tock_

* * *

 _Three Years Later_

 _Late June, 1991_

 _Albania_

Quirinus Quirrell was in a state of both physical and mental lethargy. His long robes tangled together as he panted on the damp floor of some dark woods, making him seem like nothing more than a pile of fabric and long limbs.

From between the leafy trees, moonlight illuminated the pale skin of his hairless scalp and the pale column of his throat. A trembling hand pressed against the wound on his neck, a jolt of pain travelling down his spine. Flaky bits of dried blood came off and his fingers, and Quirinus swallowed down bile.

He'd never much liked the creatures, but the vampire had kept his word, at least.

A few feet away, Quirinus spotted a glossy rod of wood, lying innocuously on the grass. A trembling hand reached for it, thin fingers curling around the carved handle. The stick thrummed reassuringly in his loose grasp and Quirinus took in a deep breath.

Kneecaps pressed to the ground, he stared listlessly up at the sky, trying to make sense of his swirling thoughts. The forest remained eerily silent.

"Right," he finally rasped, blinking rapidly. Lazing about wasn't going to solve anything. Pulling himself to his feet, the wizard stumbled over the hem of his cloak before righting himself. He dug around in his pockets for a moment, pulling out a small golden bottle. A genie lamp, procured from a very reliable vendor in the middle east; it was empty at the moment, but if all went well, that would change.

Teaching the next generation was all well and good, but in the past few years since the Dark Lord's defeat, he began to wonder if his specialties lied elsewhere. With the Second Wizarding War keeping him trapped in the United Kingdom, Quirrell had spent most of his free time reading in order to see the world; it was due to novels like _20,000 Leagues Under the Sea_ and _Arabian Sands_ that Quirinus began to yearn for more.

In his search for dark forces unknown, Quirrell took a year-long sabbatical that lead him across the globe. He'd danced with dwarfs in the Swiss alps, studied tomes in the ancient libraries of Istanbul and battled the malevolent un-dead to save an African prince.

It was in Romania, however, that an old student with a penchant for draconians had quietly informed Quirrell of the strange stirrings in Albania. Serpents and creatures of all sorts had begun flocking toward the expansive forests, vying for attention from a creature they called the wraith.

Ghosts and ghouls weren't unheard of in the wizarding world, but it was an anomaly when a half-dead spirit was able to communicate and possess living creatures on this plane. Interest peaked and suspicions roused, Quirrell had altered his plans (he was originally going to visit the remains of an Aztec pyramid) and hurriedly rented a flying horse to Albania.

Tired from his ride, Quirinus had stumbled into a squalorly pub aptly named _Shtresë E Ulët_. Over a large glass of rakija - a traditional plum brandy - Quirinus managed to glean a better insight on the so-called wraith.

The resident Albanian muggles called this phantom a spirit from hell, with features like that of a serpent and a voice that whispered sweet nothings to innocent victims. Bodies of small creatures would be found, drained of blood and their eyes burnt red; it was only when a young boy had been found dead in the woods that the small Muggle community truly began to fear this demon.

They heeded Quirinus not to seek the wraith, refusing to tell him where the creature was last spotted. Quirinus had stormed from the tavern in a frustrated rage, though excitement churned in his chest as he pondered this new lead.

It wasn't irrational to assume the Dark Lord had fled to Albania after his subsequent 'vanquishing'. At the time, the country had under a communist regime and the Albanian government had refused entrance into their borders. No wizard would have been able to follow the wraith into this political cesspool, and though the atmosphere in Albania had been full of strife, the location was highly convenient for any weakened Dark wizard to regain his strength without interference from the British government.

Setting his shoulders, Quirinus had been about to step over a short barbed fence in order to enter the woods when a pale hand shot out to grasp his shoulder.

"You are wizard, no?" came a heady voice in his ear. Quirinus had stiffened at the unnaturally tight grip, his nose twitching at the overwhelming scent of iron in the man's breath.

"How," he choked out, trembling. "How did you know?"

A cold nose pressed into his neck, inhaling deeply. "Wizard blood smells the sweetest," the stranger murmured, laving his tongue across Quirinus' prominent Adam's apple. The wizard shuddered at the sensual touch, before jerking back and pulling out his wand. The short, pale rod wavered as Quirinus took in the creature's appearance.

The creature - for it was indeed a male vampire - simply smirked at him, blood-red eyes twinkling. The rest of him was not so striking; his skin was pale as death and his long black hair covered his features like a mourning veil. If not for the vampire's graceful stance and the white incisors peaking out from between his pale-white lips, the man could almost be considered Muggle. Quirrell knew better.

He berated himself internally. How could he forget? Dark wraiths and the odd hag were not the only magical creatures to inhabit Albania.

The vampire shifted in place and Quirinus' wand shot back up. The creature licked it's lips, expression turning shifty. "I've a deal for you, _pak magkistar_ ," he purred, his accent thick and sybaritic. "Put down your . . . _stick_ and donate to me some of your delectable life source - "

"And?" Quirrell snapped, breath short.

"And I will bring you to the Dark Lord haunting my territory." Grey eyes widened comically. The vampire cracked a smile. "Oh, yes. The Dark Lord, he is here. He has been . . . _cila është fjala?_ Ah, _poaching_ on my land for the last ten years. It is irritating. Perhaps you can take care of him for me."

Quirinus eyed the vampire warily. "Just . . . just a bit of blood?" he asked hesitantly. "Not enough to kill me?"

White incisors flashed. "Of course not. You will live - though after meeting the serpent-speaker, you may wish you hadn't." Before Quirinus could respond, the creature had pounced. A cold pressure landed atop him as the vampire buried his teeth into the wizard's neck. The blood had cascaded, warm and wet down the side of his neck, and after that, everything had become a blur.

Later, he awoke he in the middle of nowhere.

Setting his shoulders, Quirrell raised his wand and shot off a sharp green flare. "I know you're here," he called out, voice cracking. "I summon thee, Dark wraith!"

The forest was silent, not even the wind daring to disturb them. Quirinus' head shot up at the sound of crackling leaves. The air went cold, abnormal for the spring season. Quirinus tried to follow the shifting shadows, unsure where exactly to look.

"A wizard? And a British one, too," came a low hiss. Quirrell blinked uncomprehendingly at the parseltongue. Just then, something scaly and cool brushed against his foot. He jumped, startled, as a large, thick-headed serpent coiled in front of him, it's skull swaying back and forth. It's eyes, while slit, were a bright shade of blood-red.

"What's my name?" Voldemort whispered, his tongue flicking out momentarily. Quirrell stared at him in apparent horror. "What is my name?" he insisted, the heavy weight of his magic pushing Quirrell into a prostrate position. The man dropped his genie lamp, the golden artifact rolling beneath a weedy bush.

"V - Voldemort," Quirrell stammered over the taboo, fear coursing through him. "Lord Voldemort."

"Yes," the wraith hissed. Quirrell threw his head back as a solid, black mass began to rise from the serpent's mouth. The corpse fell to the ground, motionless, while Quirinus was forced to stare into the face of - what was surely - death itself.

"Rise, wizard," Voldemort spoke on a chilling voice. "And witness the great power of Lord Voldemort, himself."

Harry awoke suddenly, jerking up as though having fallen from a great height. A gasp escaped his lips, eyes flickering open in surprise. His bedroom was illuminated by a sliver of moonlight streaming in through the window. The rays reflected off his glasses - sitting on his bedside table - casting an array of strangely-shaped beams to dance across the wall.

He couldn't remember his dream. Or, at least, that's what he told himself. The lingering sensation of darkness and _power_ remained, causing him to shudder. Licking the salty wetness from his top lip, Harry slid on his glasses and practiced breathing. Meditation was something Missus Rachel suggested to cure his night terrors, during one of her brief welfare checks.

Even after all these years, the woman was disturbingly cheerful and adamant in her belief that Harry could still be adopted. Very few children in the orphanage lasted past age ten. Harry simply wasn't _cute_ anymore.

At age eleven, he was coltish and skinny with no growth spurt in sight. His hair had grown long, the exact color and texture of crow feathers. His cheeks were concave and pale, lacking any baby fat he might've had, if the Dursleys hadn't starved him.

Privet Drive seemed so far away, his memories of the Dursleys dim and repressed. Perhaps this was for the best. The faded scars on his back and the vague dream of a blazing fire reminded Harry that things could be a lot worse.

He was lonesome at the orphanage, true, but at least he wasn't denied food or education. Rumors spread at school of his _peculiarities,_ and he was mostly left alone. Bullies were common, but Harry was stronger and smarter than he looked.

His message was clear.

Those who hurt him don't usually last long.

Harry jerked up in surprise as a sudden noise sounded from outside his window. It was a screeching noise, long and desperate. Harry had a weakness for animals in need, starting with his partiality for serpents. Scylla and her brief foray as a house-pet was a fond memory. This was no snake, though.

Pushing open the window, Harry craned his head up toward the roof. A fire escape was positioned conveniently near the sill, it's rusted metal creaky and precarious. With a grunt, he hoisted himself into the window. It took a few minutes to maneuver the fire escape, but height didn't bother him. There were many worse things to be fearful of.

Small, calloused fingers clasped onto the crumbling mortar as he lifted himself carefully onto the dilapidated roof. Brushing the dust off his frayed, over-sized shorts, Harry carefully approached the stranded creature.

Struggling on the roof was a diminutive bundle of dark tan feathers. It was barn owl, cawing desperately as it tried to untangle it's claw from a loose antenna wire.

Curiously, he noticed a silken red ribbon tied about it's leg. The bird tugged at it, beak chattering. "Scared, girl?" he asked softly, stepping over a loose shingle. He patted his pockets, finding a crushed granola bar.

He exhibited a handful of crumbs to the bird. She slowly pecked at his palm, seemingly calmed by his presence. _Must be a pet,_ he mused, wiping his hand. With slow movements, he undid the ribbon. "Hush," he murmured. "Be still."

He spread the wires, freeing her claw. Relieved, she flexed her leg and nuzzled Harry's hand gratefully. "There you go, girl." After ruffling herself, the owl took off in a single-minded pursuit of freedom.

Harry was left with the red ribbon twined between his fingers and an envelope by his foot. Lifting it, Harry poked at the burning red seal on the backside, recognizing the letter _'H',_ surrounding by four, peculiar looking animals.

 _Mr. H Potter,_ he read, arching an eyebrow. _We are pleased to inform you that you've been accepted at -_ Harry tossed the letter away without reading the rest, watching as it fluttered to the ground.

He climbed, catlike, from the roof and slid through his window. With a yawn, he crawled back into the warm comfort of his bed. Something inside him regretted the hasty disposal of that letter.

But it was laughable. Who would want _him_ to attend their school?

 ** _Thoughtless boy,_** his inner voice chided. **_Just you wait, Harry._** **_There's a whole world out there, outside you and this rotten orphanage._**

Ignoring the voice (as he was tend to do), Harry rolled over and waited for the sun to rise. It was, after all, a new day.

* * *

 _July 31st, 1991_

Rubeus Hagrid turned down a narrow road, passing an array of industrial buildings and a small chapel. He sped past a newspaper stand and a gust of air blew a paper from it's shelf. It drifted into a puddle, the headline _'Sporadic Bird-Sightings Causes Confusion . . .'_ dampening instantly.

Hagrid hummed cheerfully under his breath, waving at a young girl playing jump-rope on the sidewalk. She gawked at him, tripping over the rope.

The man skidded to a stop before an arching metal gate, his front wheel nudging at a pole. "So this is where the lad ended up," the giant mused, kicking down his stand. He stood up heavily, the seat groaning beneath him. As he removed the helmet, coarse strands of bushy hair stuck out in several directions, giving him a faintly deranged appearance. From one of his large pockets, he pulled out a pink umbrella, frayed at the edges and scattered with holes.

Shoving open the gates, Hagrid nodded at a few startled children. A little boy darted out of the orphanage door and slammed into Hagrid's legs. "Whoa there, laddie," The toddler stumbled back, looked up and began screaming. A harried woman swooped out of nowhere to shoo him back inside.

"Who are you?" She demanded.

"Uh, Rubeus Hagrid, ma'am," the man said sheepishly, scratching at his beard. "Sorry for scaring the little 'un. I'm looking for a Mr. Harry Potter."

Her eyes lit up hopefully. "Why for? Adoption?"

"No, no," Hagrid said hurriedly. "He's been invited to our school."

Louisa said skeptically. "What school's this, then?"

Hagrid shifted uncomfortably. "It's for, er, special children. I'd really rather talk to Harry about this, if yeh don't mind. He's been down for our school since birth, something his mum and pa' did before they died. This - this paper should clear things up," he passed over a crumpled piece of parchment.

It reality, it was a receipt for dead ferrets (a hippogriff;s favorite snack) that Dumbledore had charmed. The woman skimmed it idly, her eyes glazing over.

A wail sounded from inside the building, snapping her from her reverie. The woman sighed. "I've got to check on baby Samuel," Louisa folded the parchment. "I'll give this to Mother Magdalena later. She's - ah, resting, so it's best to leave her alone for now. Harry's bedroom is up the stairs, third door on the left."

Hagrid nodded gratefully and maneuvered around the group of eavesdropping children that clustered nearby. He stared around the orphanage, wincing at the cacophony of chattering and crying. The orphanage was messy and in poor condition - no place for James and Lily's son, certainly. Shame sickened his stomach.

He followed the woman's instructions and rounded the corner to see a white, nondescript door, identical to all the others. Lifting a large hand, Hagrid knocked.

"Alright," Harry said to himself, staring at the pile of letters sitting on his desk. "This has gotten ridiculous."

It had been a month since he'd received his first letter and since then, Harry's collection had grown unfathomably. They'd appear in stacks outside his window, delivered - Harry suspected - by owls, just like the first. It had started slow, with one or two letters a week. Mother Magdalena had come across several of them, gaping at him in shock before tossing the letters into the fireplace.

 _"Witchcraft!"_ she exclaimed, stammering, putting up a facade of dismissal. _"Sorcery! Bah."_ Harry had agreed at first, but he was starting to believe that if this was a joke, it had gone way too far. And if _not_. . . A school for magic? _Really?_ Well, it wasn't _completely_ inexplicable.

Harry had long been of the mindset that books held the answer to everything. And so, in his desperation, he turned to the orphanage's library. The mistress, Louisa - who had become Mother Magdalena's assistant as other mistresses came and went - monitored the small stockpile of book. She had a soft spot for Harry, however; against her better judgement, the mistress passed over a few small books on 'the blasphemy' of witchcraft and paganry.

Harry read along beneath his breath, skimming through the pages. With a tenderness not familiarized with a child his age, he hungrily devoured each and every word, gently grasping the parchment between his thin, bony fingers.

 ** _What a way to spend your birthday,_** the voice whispered mockingly. **_Reading about the attempted extermination of our kind._** To be honest, it was was a bit disturbing to read the first-hand accounts of exorcisms on wayward children or the Salem Witch Trials.

Witch; the very word gave thought of hag-like women with warts and grey hair, riding broomsticks, cursing innocents and painting devil traps. While the idea of riding a broomstick was wicked, the rest was not so innocuous.

The possibilities thrilled Harry, his imagination going wild.

He lifted his head as a knock came at his door.

* * *

 ** _*_** _'I've got_ ** _a golden ticket!'_ **\- Roald Dahl, _Charlie and the Chocolate Factory_

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

Harry clearly thinks very little of himself, even after all these years. He's been damaged emotionally from all his years with the Dursleys and his self-imposed seclusion hasn't helped a bit. However, the opportunity for something amazing serves as a 'golden ticket'.

Theme of poem: Opportunity

Translations:

 _Shtresë E Ulët_ 'The Pariah'

 _Pak _magkistar_ _ = (loosely translated to) 'little wizard'.

 _Cila është fjala? =_ 'What is the word?'


	5. Gilded Cage

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Five:**

 **Gilded Cage**

 _Enter, stranger, but take heed o_ ** _f_ **_what awaits the sin of g_ ** _ree_** _d, For those who take, but do not earn, must p_ ** _a_** _y mo_ ** _s_** _t de_ ** _a_** _rly in their turn. So if you seek_ ** _b_** _eneath our floors a treasure that was never yours, th_ ** _i_** _ef, you have been wa_ ** _r_** _ne_ ** _d_ **_, beware of finding more than treasure there._ ** _*_**

* * *

"Sir? You're actually serious? This isn't just some sort of. . . elaborate prank?" Harry asked, clenching the acceptance letter tightly, as if afraid it would be ripped from his grasp.

The conversation explaining Harry's wizardry had been well received, Hagrid thought. Now all that was left was You-Know-Who. Hagrid glanced around the orphan's room and frowned; perhaps that would be a conversation for another day. He'd already been through enough.

"Dead serious, lad. And none of that 'sir' business, call me Hagrid." The giant man smiled at Harry's clear trepidation, and stooped low to take Harry's minuscule-looking hand in between his large paws.

"The headmaster appointed me to take care of yeh. He figured yeh'd need someone who knows his way 'round wizarding London." Harry watched as Hagrid pulled out a small owl that had been sleeping in his pocket. It chattered angrily at being awoken and nipped at Hagrid's fingers. Hagrid merely cooed at the animal's reaction. "Might I borrow some paper?" Harry ripped a sheet of paper from one of his notebooks.

Hagrid's tongue pressed between his teeth as he painstakingly scribbled out a note.

 _' Dear Professor Dumbledore,_

 _Given Harry his letter. Had a little trouble at the orphanage, I'll tell you 'bout it later._

 _Taking him to buy his things now. Hope you're well._

 _\- Hagrid'_

"Dumbledore doesn't want yeh to stay here anymore," Hagrid told him, releasing his owl out the window. "You're not protected here. Yeh'll be safer in the wizarding world." Hope flared in Harry's chest, an emotion he'd long ago repressed. "Grab everything yeh need, lad." Hagrid passed over a handbag, pulling it open with a bushy grin. "Go on, everything'll fit, I promise."

Curious, Harry collected an armful of his clothing and books and placed them one-by-one into the bag. Somehow they all fit, his entire arm wiggling inside the bag. His fingers tingled when he took it out. "Wicked."

Sending a last glance around the barren room, Harry led the way downstairs. "Don't you wanna say goodbye to any o' the children?" Hagrid asked.

Lingering for a moment, Harry spotted Louisa, who was forcing a bottle into an obstinate child's mouth. The woman still wore that tired expression she always had, but a gleam entered her eyes as the baby in her arms began to suckle on the bottle teat.

Harry sighed, shaking his head. "They won't miss me," he said quietly.

Hagrid wisely said nothing.

Once outside, from the depths of one of his pockets, the man removed a miniaturized bike helmet. It was about the size of a plum. The two wizards had waited approximately three minutes before the helmet glowed and popped back to normal size; normal for Harry, at least. "Temporary shrinkin' charm," Hagrid explained, strapping the helmet beneath Harry's chin. "Fits like a glove now, don't it?"

Harry nodded, the helmet clunking.

The half-giant sat down heavily, tucking his hair into his riding helmet. After donning his riding goggles, the man gestured to the space between his massive thighs. "Well, hop on," he welcomed. "I know yer small enough." Feeling highly reluctant, Harry fit himself onto the seat, grabbing between the handlebars.

"Hold on tight now, Harry. Off we go!" The boy resisted a squeal as the motorbike took off, speeding away from the orphanage with a blast of smoke. Harry, slightly nauseous, leaned against Hagrid's back as they drove at breakneck speeds through the British Isles. Rumbling, the motorbike shot forward with a sound of wrenching metal. The city loomed ahead on the horizon.

"Almost there!" Hagrid said gleefully, wrenching on the handlebars. The tailpipe released dark black smoke as the motorbike jerked forward. Leaning hard to the right, they barely missed slamming into a bus trolley. "Charing Cross," Hagrid mumbled, looking both ways. "This is it." The motorbike spluttered once more and the back wheel jolted up as they skidded to a stop, spraying mud onto Harry's already stained clothing.

"The Leaky Cauldron," Hagrid beamed, grunting as he stood. "It's a famous place, yeh know."

It was a tiny, grubby-looking pub, the rotting wooden sign dripping with water. If Hagrid hadn't pointed it out, Harry wouldn't have even noticed it was there. The people hurrying by didn't even glance at it, their eyes sliding from the large book shop on one side to the record shop on the other as if they couldn't see the Leaky Cauldron at all. In fact, Harry had the most peculiar feeling that only he and Hagrid could see it.

Off balance, Harry left his helmet on the bike, looking back dubiously. "What if the - muggles, you said? - steal your bike?" Hagrid just smiled mysteriously.

The Leaky Cauldron was surprisingly busy for the time of day, a vast group of chattering woman and men in long, colorful robes clutching onto shopping bags and cauldrons. Signs were posted along on the walls, claiming _Sharpening Knifes 20% Off at Amanuensis Quills_ , or _Get Your Thrills At Zonko's!_

The buzz of chatter grew as Hagrid squeezed past Harry plastered firmly to his side. Everyone seemed to know the half-giant, the bar-tender included. He was tall and wrinkled, with a shock of silver hair. He reached toward a shelf, smiling.

"Your usual, Hagrid? Just got a new shipment of Ogden's Best."

"Sounds temptin', but I can't, Tom," Hagrid said reluctantly, patting a large hand to Harry's slim shoulder. "I'm on Hogwarts business today."

The bartender lowered his gaze quite a bit before reaching Harry, taking in the iconic Potter hair and glasses. "My word," he exclaimed, nearly dropping a glass. "It can't be?" His words quieted the pub, and Harry felt the eyes of dozens upon him.

He tugged Hagrid's robes. "Please, Hagrid," he whispered. "Can we just - "

"Bless my soul, it's Harry Potter!" Tom shouted, hurrying around the table to clasp Harry's hand in his, eyes frenzied. "What an honor it is, boy, truly." His words set of a maelstrom of movement, the crowd practically crawling over each other to get a glimpse of the Boy-Who-Lived.

A pale young man made his way forward, one of his eyes twitching. "Professor Quirrell!" Hagrid exclaimed. "Harry, Professor Quirrell will be one of your teachers at Hogwarts." Harry looked up at the man, tilting his head as if in faint recognition.

"P - Potter," Professor Quirrell stammered, loosely grasping Harry's hand. "I c-can't tell you how p-pleased I am to meet you. You'll be g-getting all your equipment, I suppose? I've g-got to p-pick up a new b-book on vampires, m-myself." He looked terrified at the very thought, and allowed himself to be pushed out of the way.

"Oh goodness, Harry Potter, in the flesh! I feel quite the lucky one."

"Doris Crawford, Mr. Potter, I can't believe I'm meeting you - "

"I'm all a flutter!"

"Delighted, Harry, I just can't tell you how - "

Harry, flustered and irritant, pulled away. "Hagrid, can we go now - please?"

Shamefaced, the giant looked around. "O' course. That's enough everyone, excuse us, coming through." Hagrid led Harry from the crowd and into a courtyard, murmuring all the way. "Should'a known yeh weren't ready for tha'." Hagrid unsheathed his umbrella and began tapping the brick wall. Harry watched avidly. "Three up, two across . . . alright, stand back, Harry."

As they pulled away, the wall quivered and split , right down the middle. Harry stepped back in surprise as an archway formed, larger than even Hagrid's great width.

"Welcome," the man beamed. "To Diagon Alley."

In awe, Harry stepped through the archway and watched over his shoulder as the wall became solid once more. The Alley was large - how they managed to fit it behind a tiny pub in the middle of London was anyone's guess. He was overwhelmed with the sheer number of magical goods and products; shining crystal balls, sleek black robes, colorful quills, monstrous potion ingredients were the least of Harry's worries.

The two passed an apothecary, where a thin, dark-haired girl was bargaining the price of scarab legs while her father looked on in approval. A cacophony of noise came from a whitewashed shop, _Eeylops Owl Emporium,_ and Harry gave a smile as a dark-feathered bird hooted at him.

The morning sun shone brightly on a stack of cauldrons outside the nearest shop; _Cauldrons – All Sizes – Copper, Brass, Pewter, Silver – Self-Stirring and Collapsible_ , read a colorful sign floating above them. "Yeah, you'll be needin' one," Hagrid shrugged. "But we gotta get yer money first."

Hagrid turned him to face a tall, tilting marble building. Standing beside its burnished bronze doors, wearing a uniform of scarlet and gold, was a creature that resembled a hairless, wrinkled and scowling feline.

"That's a goblin," Hagrid confirmed quietly as they walked up the white stone steps. The goblin was about a head shorter than Harry, and dressed a fair bit sharper, too.

Now they were facing a second pair of doors, silver this time, with words engraved upon them: a warning against thieves. Harry wondered if the message was enough to ward off vagabonds. "Yeh'd be mad ter try an' rob it," Hagrid nodded sagely.

A pair of goblins bowed them through the silver doors and they were in a vast marble hall. About a hundred more goblins were sitting on high stools behind a long counter, scribbling in large ledgers, weighing coins on brass scales and examining precious stones through eyeglasses. There were too many doors to count leading off the hall, and yet more goblins were showing people in and out of these.

Hagrid and Harry made for the counter. "Morning," Hagrid greeted a frazzled-looking goblin. "We've come ter take some money outta Mr. Harry Potter's safe."

The creature sniffed in annoyance and took from below his desk a long parchment and a glossy, black quill. "We have a new policy regarding access to the vaults," the goblin croaked, staring down at Harry. "Sign here."

Harry's half-giant guardian looked very unsettled by the goblin's request but said nothing, nodding at Harry to comply. He stood on his toes and scrawled his name. His hand tingled. The boy gaped as, although he had applied none, the quill dripped with red ink. Harry had a sneaking suspicion it was his own blood. The goblin made a noise under his breath, as if surprised when the messy signature gleamed. The surname _Potter_ burned gold.

"Do you have his key, sir?" the creature asked, sounding distinctly more pleasant.

"Got it here somewhere," Hagrid mumbled, emptying his pockets. "There yeh go!" he exclaimed triumphantly, holding up a tiny golden key. The goblin peered down at briefly, running his finger down the edge. "An' I've also got a letter here from Professor Dumbledore," Hagrid said importantly, throwing out his chest. "It's about the You-Know-What in vault seven hundred and thirteen."

Gnarled hands took the letter, his brow creasing. "Hmm. Very well. I will have someone take you down to the vaults. Griphook!"

Their trip down into the depths of Gringotts was . . . rattling, to say the least.

Vault seven hundred and thirteen wasn't nearly as full, not even close. At first he had thought it was empty until he noticed a grubby little package. Hagrid picked it up and tucked it deep inside his coat, nodding at the goblin.

Harry longed to know what it was, but quickly forgot as he was saw the mounds of gold in _his_ vault. Even a handful of galleons was worth at least a dozen pounds in Muggle money, not accounting the price of gold.

A bit later, the two companions stumbled out of the bank. Harry's hair was windswept and a grin stretched his dimples. Hagrid wiped the nervous sweat off his face, looking quite ill.

"Might as well get yer uniform," he said gruffly, nodding towards Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions. "Listen, Harry, would yeh mind if I slipped off fer a pick-me-up in the Leaky Cauldron? I hate them Gringotts carts," the man shuddered.

Harry watched Hagrid's retreating back, anticipation building in his chest.

Fingering the pouch strings, he entered the shop alone. Madam Malkin was only a few inches taller than Harry, dressed in a crisp mauve uniform and a maternal countenance.

"Hogwarts, dear?" she deduced, smiling reassuringly at Harry's nervous fidgeting. "Got the lot here - another young man being fitted up just now, in fact." She led him to the back of the shop where a tall boy with pointed features was having his long black robes pinned. Harry unlooped the coin purse from his belt, setting it beside the stool legs. The other boy eyed the satchel with a greedy sort of gleam to his eyes. Stepping onto the stool, Madam Malkin slipped a sheet of fabric over him.

"Hello," the boy greeted, back straightening with confidence. "Hogwarts, too?"

"Yes." Harry forced a smile.

"My father's next door buying my books and mother's up the street looking at wands," he driveled. "Then I'm going to drag them off to took at racing brooms. I don't see why first years can't have their own. I think I'll bully father into getting me one and I'll smuggle it in somehow. Have you got your own broom?"

"Um, no."

"Play Quidditch at all?" the other asked, almost hopefully.

Harry just blinked, unsure of how to respond. "Is that . . ." he thought back to the _'Quidditch Supply Shop'_ "A sport?"

The boy looked insulted. "What? Of course it is! It's the best sport around, how could you not - " he stiffened, gaze calculating. "Wait. You're not one of those muggleborns, are you? Your parents were _our_ kind, right?"

"They were a witch and a wizard, if that's what you mean," Harry's brow furrowed.

"Where are they, anyways?" At Harry's blank look, the boy elaborated slowly, as though he thought Harry was particularly slow. "Your _parents_."

"Oh. They're dead."

The boy blanched. "Sorry. You're here alone then?" Green eyes flicked toward the large window, the crowd outside conspicuously bereft of any half-giants. It seemed he was. "Well - if you want, that is - you can go shopping with - " before he could finish, Madam Malkin tapped Harry's leg.

"That's you done, dear," she told him, peeling off the robes.

Harry's hair became a mess as the robes were pulled over his head and the boy gaped at Harry's forehead. "You're Harry Potter!"

Harry dearly hoped this wouldn't be like the swarm at the Leaky Cauldron. "I - yes.

"You're . . . H - Harry Potter. I mean - oh, just let me down," the boy commanded of his tailor. Muttering beneath her breath, the assistant threw down her tape measure and stalked from the room. Regaining his posture, the boy held out a hand. "My name's Malfoy, Draco Malfoy."

Harry awkwardly maneuvered his purchases to one arm and shook it lightly. "Pleasure."

"What're you - " Quite rudely, in the blonde's opinion, Madam Malkin shoved Draco's purchases into his arms, shuffling them out of her shop.

"I won't take any loitering," she scolded. "Take your conversation elsewhere, boys."

Draco turned to scowl at her, not noticing that Harry had disappeared into the crowd. A gloved hand fell on his shoulder. "Draco," Narcissa said softly, turning him to face her. "What has got you so excitable?"

Grumbling beneath his breath, Draco turned to his mother. The tall, slender woman was dressed in fine robes, looking every bit the pureblood Lady she was. Draco resembled his mother quite a bit, with the Black cheekbones and fierce temper that often got him into more trouble than he cared to admit.

"You'll never guess who I just met, mother," he declared, passing his robes off to the obsequious house-elf trailing behind.

"Who?" Narcissa asked indulgently.

"Harry Potter! _The_ Harry Potter! He's nice, too, not at all stuck up like Pansy and Theo thought," Draco prattled, unaware to how his mother's expression paled a few shades further.

"How . . . delightful, darling," Narcissa forced a smile. "Now, let's see Ollivander about your wand . . . "

Harry was alone, but this didn't bother him. He read from his supply list and started off.

The Apothecary was fascinating enough to make up for its horrible smell; a mixture of bad eggs and rotted cabbages. Harry frowned at the yellowish snake-skin being annihilated by an employee, shredded like a damn piece of parchment. While the man behind the counter compiled a supply of basic potion ingredients for Harry, he examined silver unicorn horns for sale at twenty-one Galleons each.

 _Unicorns are real too?_ Harry wondered excitedly.

He bought his school books in a shop called Flourish and Blotts, where the shelves were stacked to the ceiling. Harry spent a long time excitedly skimming _Curses and Countercurses_ by Professor Vindictus Viridian. Newt Scamander's _Fantastic Beasts_ was incredible, the special-edition book including written notes from the magizoologist. The chapter on demiguise read, in a scribbling handwriting, _'Dougal has a fascinating fondness for Occamies.'_

Demiguise could, apparently, camouflage themselves into any background - their fur a rare, exceptional ingredient. They were used to make Invisibility Cloaks, a concept that appealed to Harry greatly. **_Why not get one?_** the voice whispered. **_Since you're so fond of sneaking about. You'll find some cheap ones in Knockturn Alley._**

It gently urged him into the alley, toward a dark corner.

Above him, a sign reading _Knockturn Alley_ hung on only one chain, the other hanging limp and broken. One man, a bottle of liquor clenched in his hand, watched from narrowed, violet eyes as Harry nervously crept past. The storefronts were dark and elusive, displaying jars of severed limbs and macabre artifacts like a guillotine with a golden blade and a polished yew breaking wheel. Harry shivered as he felt someone's gaze on him, refusing to look at the stick of skewered eyeballs sold at a nearby cart.

Morbid curiosity pushed him forward and, eventually, Harry stopped at a large glass window, showing a human skeleton and a smoke-filled mirror.

As he stared, the mirror seemed to shift, showing . . . almost . . . a face. One that wasn't his own. Just as Harry was about to lean closer, seeing the whites of their eyes, a low, creaking voice jolted him from his reverie.

"What're you looking for, sonny?" A hag - or what Harry presumed to be a hag - stared at him through squinting, wrinkled eyes. She had several large, worrying warts, stringy black hair and large teeth. Harry stared at her.

From Scamander's book, most hags had a taste for children. However - she didn't seem too terribly threatening, with her limp and trembling hands. Harry glanced behind her hunched shoulders at a cart of artifacts and books bound in - what he hoped - was leather.

"Would you happen to have any invisibility cloaks?" he asked hopefully.

With a slow smile, the hag nodded.

"Good day to you, Mr. Borgin," Lucius Malfoy said in a bored tone. "I thank you for your expertise in the matter, but I'm afraid I'll have to take my business elsewhere."

The door opened with a jingle of a bell. A stooped, oily-looking man was bowing obsequiously to the fair, broad-shouldered man. "Good day yourself, _Mister_ Malfoy . . ." the shop keep hissed, muttering obscenely beneath his breath. He slammed the door shut behind him, dust fluttering to the floor.

"Intolerable man," Lucius hissed beneath his breath, his cane clicking against the stone floor. His silver eyes gazed keenly across the alley, his thoughts running a mile a minute. He'd intended on procuring an undetectable trunk for his son, able to bypass the wards at Hogwarts that detected Dark artifacts and tomes. Borgin, however, was running too high a price for flimsy charm work. It wasn't worth it.

Turning toward Diagon, he saw a bundle of limbs on the ground and nearly tripped over his heeled boots. "What in the name of - " Lucius scowled. _"What_ are you doing?"

It was a boy, dreadfully small. He could be no more than a first-year, by the scattered class books and robes around him. "This is no place for children," Lucius grumbled, glancing around for the child's parents.

Bright green eyes stared up at him. "Sorry, sir. I seemed to have lost something."

Curiosity overcame him. "What have you lost?"

"My invisibility cloak!" he frowned, fondling the cobblestones. "I just got it from a hag, but I tripped and lost it."

 _"Accio_ invisibility cloak," Lucius waited, hand outstretched. After a few seconds and nothing appeared, Lucius shook his head."You've been swindled, child. I hope you didn't pay an arm and leg for it," Lucius added, eyeing his thread-bare Muggle clothing. Lucius wrinkled his nose in distaste.

He wasn't quite sure why he even bothered - the child had likely wandered into the Alley on accident and made a fool of himself. Lucius ought to be amused by it. Not _concerned._

"It's alright, I suppose," the boy sighed, struggling to stand. "Seeing as I paid for it in Leprechaun Gold, from that joke shop," he grinned slyly. Lucius blinked. The child wasn't as dim as he seemed.

"Can you stand?" the man noticed the boy's pained wince. His only response was a grimace. With a resigned sigh, Lucius allowed the boy to grasp onto his cane. He twitched his wand, levitating Harry's packages. "Let's see, then," Lucius said impatiently. Harry hobbled onto the front step of a shop, wincing at every movement.

"You really don't need to - "

"Quiet," the man said in irritation. _"Emendio."_ A sound like the crack of a belt filled the room and Harry gasped out in shock. The pain in his foot soon faded to a dull throb.

He tested his ankle. "Th . . . that was - " he stared in amazement at the wand.

"You're acting as though you've never seen magic before," Lucius said in faint amusement.

Harry shook his head. "Not a _real_ spell." If Lucius wasn't sure of the boy's muggle heritage, he was now. "All Hagrid showed me was a magical handbag and a 'temporary shrinking charm'."

Rubeus Hagrid? The _savage?_ Why would Dumbledore send that wandless oaf to collect a muggleborn? "What's your surname, boy?" Lucius barked out.

Green eyes blinked warily up at him, as if hesitant. "Potter, sir. Harry Potter."

Lucius let out a long breath. This was much worse than he imagined.

"Where is your chaperone, child?"

Harry shook his head. "I don't know. Hagrid got ill from the mine carts - in the bank - and went for a drink at the Leaky Cauldron. He hasn't come back for me."

"How irresponsible of him," the man said through gritted teeth. "Come, I'll escort you back to him. I have a choice few words for the Gatekeeper myself."

As it turned out, a single pick-me-up turned into a pint, and then a whole bottle of Odgen's Best. The barkeep lent an ear to Hagrid's bemoaning; _'Those bloody minecarts . . . Lily n' James would n'er forgive me if I just left 'Arry with the muggles. Poor lad's been through 'ell an' back.'_

Tom was surprised when the burly man slumped into a deep slumber. The owner sheepishly levitated Hagrid's unconscious body into the backroom, apologizing profusely to an irate Mister Malfoy. "We don't usually allow our patrons to drink so much. But he just kept ordering, and Hagrid's a big man, he can usually hold a lot more - "

Lucius clucked his tongue in annoyance, checking his golden pocket-watch. "It's the oaf's fault for imbibing so much. I really ought to be finding my wife and son," he said with pursed lips, sending a glance at Harry. "All you had left was Ollivander, yes?"

Looking back at Hagrid's slumped body, Harry abruptly remembered the half-giant's mysterious package. "Yes, sir," Harry said. "I, just - Hagrid has a few things of mine. It'll only take a moment."

Under Lucius' careful eye, Harry slipped a small hand into Hagrid's large pocket.

He felt for the lumpy package and gently removed it, along with his golden Gringott's key and the handbag containing all his material possessions. He weighed the package in his hand, fighting back the wave of guilt.

 ** _Well, it's not as though he'll be needing it for a while._**

"Are you quite done, Mister Potter?" Lucius asked impatiently. Harry nodded, absently putting the package into his pocket.

Lucius beckoned him back into the Alley, grilling him about his life in the Muggle world. "What was it like, among the dregs and the filth?"

"Absolutely horrid," Harry said with certainty. "I - I live at an orphanage, you see. My relatives died a few years ago, in a fire."

Lucius looked contemplative. "An orphanage, you say?"

They approached the last shop. Ollivander's was a deceptively small place, but it apparently had the biggest collection of wands in England. The pale, blond boy from Malkin's was standing outside with his mother, excitedly flicking his new, glossy wand. Harry looked between Lucius and Draco; they did look very alike, with the same pompous attitude, pointed features and flaxen hair.

"Father!" Draco exclaimed, catching sight of the tall man and his dark shadow. "I got my wand and - _Potter?_ What are you doing with father?"

"Mister Potter will be staying with us," Lucius proclaimed softly, moving toward his wife. He conducted a muffled explanation, lips brushing against her ear. The woman arched her eyebrow, but offered no rejections.

With swift, smooth movements, Narcissa lifted her skirt and bent down to his height, extending a well-manicured hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mister Potter,"

"Harry, please. And you as well, Missus Malfoy," he said shyly.

 _How endearing._ Narcissa smiled. "Call me Narcissa, dear. Lucius tells me you have yet to get your wand? Very well. We can wait here - or come with you, if you're nervous?"

The boy glanced up at the old building and took in a deep breath. "I'll be fine, Ma'am - Narcissa, that is. Thank you."

"Good luck!" Draco said encouragingly, bouncing on the heels of his feet. Lucius lifted his eyes in exasperation and laid a calming hand on Draco's shoulder.

Harry stepped into the shop. He looked at the thousands of narrow boxes piled neatly right up to the ceiling, jumping as a bit of air tickled his neck. "Good afternoon," said a soft voice. A wrinkled man inched closer, scrutinizing Harry with his distorted gaze. Harry remained still, sensing the man was coming to a sort of conclusion about him. "Ah, yes," Ollivander started, tilting his head curiously. "I thought I'd be seeing you soon, Harry Potter."

It was becoming quite annoying how everyone knew his name.

"You have your mother's eyes," the man mused. "It seems only yesterday she was in here herself, buying her first wand. Ten and a quarter inches long, swishy, made of willow. Nice wand for charm work." Mr. Ollivander moved closer to Harry. "Your father, on the other hand, favored a mahogany wand. Eleven inches. Pliable. A little more power and excellent for transfiguration. Well, I say your father favored it - it's really the wand that chooses the wizard, of course.

"And that's where . . . " Mr. Ollivander touched the lightning scar on Harry's forehead with a long, white finger. Harry jerked away, sweeping his fringe over the mark.

"My apologies," he murmured. "I am sorry to say I sold the wand that did it; Thirteen-and-a-half inches, yew. A powerful wand, very powerful, and in the wrong hands . . . " his wrinkled throat bobbed as Ollivander swallowed tightly. "Well, now, Mr. Potter. Let me see." He pulled a long tape measure with silver markings out of his pocket. "Which is your wand arm?"

Harry paused. "Left," he said decisively.

"Hold out your arm."

"Does everyone need a wand?" Harry burst out, eyeing the tape measure as it flitted about his body. "I, mean, can't some people just . . . use their hands?"

Ollivander's mercurial gaze was sharp. "Underage magic is quite different, Mr. Potter," he said lowly. "It is typically uncontrollable and fueled by emotion and pure, raw power. Magical children can, occasionally, exhibit mild degrees of control over this magic. They can use it to their intent, but are unable to cast specific spells. To do so it is a very advanced ability, exhibited by some adult witches and wizards. Regardless, the use of a wand is to give a witch or wizard _control_ , to focus and channel their magic, thus making the effects of spells more accurate and potent."

Harry remained silent, trying to interpret the lesson into plain English. Ollivander bustled around the shelves, taking down boxes and caressing the wood within. "That will do," he said absentmindedly, and the tape measure crumpled into a heap on the floor. "Right then, Mr. Potter. Try this one. Beechwood and dragon heartstring. Nine inches. Nice and flexible. Just take it and give us a wave."

Harry grasped the wand and barely lifted his arm before Mr. Ollivander snatched it away. "Absolutely not, my mistake. Maple and phoenix feather. Seven inches. Quite whippy." He had hardly clenched the handle when it, too, was snatched back by Mr. Ollivander. "No, no. Here, ebony and unicorn hair, eight and a half inches, springy. Oh - dear," he winced as a flower pot exploded. "Preference for phoenix feather, then."

The pile of tried wands mounted higher and higher on the spindly chair, but the more wands Mr. Ollivander pulled from the shelves, the greater his wily little smile grew. "Tricky customer, eh? Not to worry, we'll find the perfect match here somewhere. I wonder, now . . . yes, well, why not? It's an unusual combination, holly and phoenix feather, eleven inches, nice and supple."

Harry took the wand. There was a sudden warmth in his body, like when he moved things without touching them or spoke to the voice in his head. Twitching it, silver and gold crystals erupted into the air. They floated serenely about his body before dissolving into the floor with a metallic glow

"Oh, bravo!" Mr. Ollivander cried out. "Yes, indeed, oh, very good. Well, well, well . . . how curious. How _very_ curious ." He pried the wand from Harry's hands and placed it into its box.

"What's curious?" Harry queried.

Mr. Ollivander fixed Harry with his pale stare, suddenly very somber. "I remember every wand I've ever sold, Mr. Potter. Every single wand. It so happens that the phoenix whose tail feather is in your wand, gave another feather - just _one_ other. It is very curious indeed that you should be destined for this wand when its brother why, its brother gave you that scar." Harry's eyes widened in surprise.

"Yes, thirteen-and-a-half inches. Yew. Curious indeed how these things happen. The wand chooses the wizard, remember. I think we must expect great things from you, Mr. Potter; After all, He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named did great things - terrible, yes, but great."

* * *

 ** _*_** ** _'Free as a bird_ **_with clipped wings'_

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

Even as Harry enters this new, amazing world, Harry will still be trapped in a prison of expectations - expectations that Harry may unable to uphold due to his own inhibitions.

The 'clipped wings' is another reference to this gilded cage. Harry may be placed on a pedestal and treated kindly, but he will never truly achieve the freedom he yearns for.

Theme of poem: Caution


	6. Flying Blind

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Six:**

 **Flying Blind**

 ** _T_** _hese men had sought their brides among the highest born, but it_ ** _w_** _as always so; tak_ ** _i_** _ng them to themselves, their wealth, their lands, but never their titles. Stern perhaps, but strong, they fed their blood from ri_ ** _c_** _h_ ** _e_** _st streams, scorning the common throng. Gazing upon these men,_ ** _sh_** _e understands b_ ** _y_ **_the toughness of the web wrought from such strands, and their pride colours all her dreams._ ** _*_**

\- Amy Lowell, _Pickthorn Manor_

* * *

 _Malfoy Manor_

"Why is he here, Father?" Draco asked later that evening. He was sitting cross-legged on the carpet, flipping through one of his new books. Lucius was busy scribbling a letter to the Ministry, using his serious, dark-black quill.

Lucius' office was spacious and neat. The room was dark and regal. Purple and green stones lied under foot, a lightning-glass chandelier tinkling above his head. The walls rounded in an oblong shape, with bookshelves so tall they reached the ceiling. Malfoy Manor had a more diverse and expansive library on an upper floor, but Lucius preferred to read in the comfort of his workroom.

His large desk was placed against the window. The desktop was wide and flat, bewitched to repel ink spills and resist scratches. It had been in the Malfoy family for generations. Lucius had to recently strengthen the locking charms on his desk drawers, as his only son had a penchant for snooping.

Speaking of his son, adjacent to an impressive fireplace was a black settee and a carpet, where Draco was fond of laying across. Lucius hadn't been allowed into his father's office when he was a child and had thus debated giving Draco the luxury. Draco quickly learned to be quiet while his father worked.

The boy was excitable today, however, and Lucius supposed Draco had a right to be.

"That fool of a headmaster," Lucius gritted his teeth, finishing his letter with a flourish. "Assigned a drunkard to chaperone young Mister Potter for the evening. But instead of taking care of his charge, the savage took residence at the Leaky Cauldron and had drunk himself into a stupor."

"Why do we even care?" Draco said boredly.

"I found Potter wandering alone in Knockturn Alley - without a wand, mind - and as a member of the School Board, I'm contractually obligated to intervene in matters of clear child neglect."

Draco sat up. "What? Harry got to see Knockturn Alley?" he pouted, envious.

Lucius nearly forgot his son was eleven and willfully ignorant of serious matters. "You'll get to come with me next year," the man conceded, rubbing between his eyes. "And tuck in that bottom lip, it's uncivilized."

The lip protruded even more for a moment before the child caught himself. "Is he going to be staying with us?"

"The Ministry just might allow it," The elder man rolled the letter and tied it. "Once they hear about their _esteemed_ headmaster's negligence."

"What about Harry's family?" Draco asked curiously. "Even with his parents dead and gone, surely he must be living somewhere?"

Lucius frowned. "According to Potter, he has been living in a muggle orphanage since his relative's house burned down nearly three years ago. He was left there, almost as though Dumbledore _forgot_ about his little savior."

"An orphanage!" the boy exclaimed, face flushing. "It's a disgrace! No wizard should - "

"Not just _any_ wizard," Lucius reminded, eyes gleaming. "Infamous, and the heir to a notable family as well. By sending Hagrid to fetch him from the muggles, Dumbledore surely hoped to keep Potter ignorant of his heritage. Rest assured, there will be no more of that. Even if the Ministry doesn't transfer Potter's papers to us, there are a number of respectable wizards employed at the Ministry willing to take in a celebrity."

Draco scowled. "Weasley works at the Ministry, too, doesn't he?"

"Not for long, if I can help it. Regardless, Arthur can't afford another addition to his _brood_. He has a number of spawn to get through Hogwarts yet, passing down supplies from child to child as they grow."

"Red hair, freckles and hand-me-down robes, right?"

"You'll be able to spot one from a mile off," Lucius smiled, pleased. The man brought his fingers to his lips and whistled sharply, summoning an elf. A nervous creature appeared with a burst of light, lowering it's head nearly to the floor.

"What can Dobby be doing for masters?"

Lucius sniffed at Dobby's appearance. His skin was covered in boils, as though he'd taken a dip in some cooking oil. He knew better to ask, however. "Deliver this to my bird, Titus. Tell him it's for Amelia Bones of the DMLE." The elf nodded, taking the letter tenderly and popping away.

"Hufflepuffs," he directed toward Draco, leaning back in his chair. "While craven at the worst of times, are honorable. And bleeding hearts, for that matter - once Bones hears about that poor, _abused_ child, she will do what needs to be done. And if not," Lucius bared his teeth. "I daresay my _contributions_ to the Ministry will be halted until due justice is served."

* * *

Earlier that week, Harry certainly didn't expect to be told he was a wizard, nor be carted into London by a boisterous giant. But teleported via-house elf to a bloody _mansion?_

After allowing his possessions to be taken away by an elf - a scrawny, hairless creature that bowed obsequiously before popping away - Narcissa had led him around in an impromptu tour.

The ambiance of Malfoy Manor was entirely resplendent. Daylight streamed through the halls, shining off the silver fixtures and marble floor. The walls were covered in tapestries and tasteful portraits. In the front hall was a large portrait of the patriarch and matriarch.

Portrait-Narcissa sat atop cushioned loveseat situated in the center of the frame. A silver band was wrapped around her ring finger, glittering with a dark ruby. The sleeves of her dark robes were wide and voluminous, a silver serpent sewn into the collar along with the Black family insignia. Her blue eyes were keen with intelligence, paling in comparison to her real-life counterparts' frigid stare. Behind her, Lucius stood imperiously with a puffed-up chest and sleek white hair. His hand was possessively laid atop her shoulder.

"That portrait won't animate until Lucius and I pass away," she whispered to Harry. "But it is a bit unnerving, isn't it?"

As Narcissa pointed out the massive library and the dining hall, Harry was hit by the realization that he saw no other life in the manor; at least none he could see.

"Are you three all alone here?" Harry asked softly, staring at the large dining table. Only three chairs were present at the very end, decadently carved with twining serpents.

Narcissa smiled gently. "Lucius' mother and father lived with us for a few years until Medusa passed and poor Abraxas became ill. It is very large all by ourselves, but not quite as large as Hogwarts will be. You'll get used to it," She added, nodding toward a curved glass window. "We also have many pets."

Harry looked out at the large grounds, hoping for a glimpse of perhaps a swing-set or a slide. Instead, he was treated with sight of a dozen albino birds scattered across the lawn, their feathers splayed impressively.

"Draco's grandfather could turn into one." Narcissa leaned toward him, watching as a large peacock brutally snapped at another. Harry was once again startled.

"A . . . a peacock? Is that even possible?"

The woman winked. "Darling, there is much for you to learn. With magic, nearly _everything_ is possible, if you have the will and the know-how to _try."_ Before Harry could ask for an elaboration, Narcissa continue on, her long gown swept against the polished floor, heels clicking softly.

"Lucius also has a herd of Abraxan - large, winged horses - in the stables. We have a Squib caring for them on the very edge of our property so there's no chance of the _stench_ reaching us. Ah, up this way," she climbed the staircase, running a pale hand over the cold railing. "We're approaching the Occamy Wing, where you'll be staying."

Continuing down a candle-lit corridor, the walls became bereft of paintings, instead decorated with a pleasant paisley pattern. The high ceilings gave the impression that they were in a turret.

Narcissa came to a stop in front of a tall wooden door, the frame lined with glinting runes. "Security and safety charms," she explained. "This was Draco's old nursery, but it's since been renovated into a guest hall for his younger cousins."

Beneath her fingertips, the door disappeared from it's frame.

Harry stepped inside, wide-eyed. All four walls were a continuation of an absolutely stunning mural scene. Small, animated hippogriffs and unicorns pranced together in the bright, flowery fields of the west-most wall while dragons roamed free in the rolling hills to the south. Red-winged phoenixes soared over the expansive forest scene in the north, where demure thestrals rested in the shade.

A wooden wardrobe was left open in the corner, Harry's new robes and clothing folded pristinely on a shelf. His books were stacked on a short bookcase, next to a large pile of plush animals and delicate dolls, blocks and fine motor toys.

Glimmering yellow was a floating light, positioned about the bed. Slytherin colours of emerald and grey draped the bed and cushions, soft to the touch. Harry caressed the blanket tenderly, his expression tight.

"How are you feeling, Harry?"

"I . . . just don't want to be a burden," Harry sighed. He laid back primly on the bedsheets, spreading his arms against the deep green silk. "But I have no real inclination to do anything about it, clearly." Luxury was something unheard of for Harry, and he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Narcissa smirked. "We'll make a Slytherin out of you yet."

Harry smiled at ceiling, watching a phoenix flap above his head.

 ** _Happy birthday, Harry._**

* * *

 _August, 1991_

Draco, upon learning he'd missed Harry's birthday the week before, immediately dropped everything and dragged Harry to the Quidditch shed. Draco passed over his old Comet 260, smirking at Harry's reverent expression.

"Though it _looks_ good," he informed, pulling out his broom. "It's really got nothing on the Nimbus brand. Father says it's a crime if I'm not picked to play Quidditch for my house next year; though, it probably won't hurt if he bought me a new broom," the boy added. "I don't see why first years can't have their own. I'll probably smuggle one in somehow."

As the older wizard regaled him with tales of risky maneuvers and near-collisions with Muggle helicopters - though he dreadfully mispronounced the aircraft - Harry listened with one ear, gently holding the handle of the Comet 260.

Following Draco's - debatable - instructions, Harry straddled the broom and slowly began to hover midair. "Start slow," Draco suggested, though his Nimbus 1700 floated nearly as high as the tree tops.

Harry began to lean forward, and it soon became apparent that he was a _bloody natural._ Taking to air like a bird in flight, for the first time, Harry could truly believe he was a wizard. His eyes shone in the sunlight as he shot through the air. Hair fluttering behind him, Harry laughed, stretching out his arms.

The wind rushed past his fingertips, carrying with it the sound of Draco calling out behind him. "Wait up!"

As Harry made a risky dive, his coat fluttered behind him. A lumpy brown object slipped to the ground, making a dent in the soft soil. "Oi, you dropped something, you great lug!" Draco called out, dropping to the ground.

Harry reared to a stop. He'd forgotten Hagrid's package in his pocket. "What is this?" Draco asked, tossing it between his hands. He pulled down the brown paper, catching a glimpse of a golden-red stone. "Harry, what are you doing with a magic rock?"

"I'd forgotten I had that," Harry said, avoiding Draco's eyes. He jumped off the broom, holding out a hand. "Just pass it over."

Draco arched a brow. "What's the matter, Harry?" he teased, holding the stone above his head. "Want it? Well, you'll just have to _catch_ it first!" Draco soured upwards and tossed the stone through the air. He hadn't been lying, he _could_ fly rather well. The boy swooped around and, with the reflexes of a Seeker, snatched it out of the air with a bright grin. "Come on, slow poke!"

Grinning, Harry latched back onto his broom and took off.

 ** _You're . . ._** the inner voice was strangled. **_You're playing catch with a legendary artifact_** **.** ** _I can't believe_** _-_ Harry dived, screaming delightfully. The voice screamed too, apparently not too fond of being toted along on a reckless broom chase.

Well, too bad for him.

Harry _loved_ it.

* * *

 _Autumn, 1991_

Harry awoke at the cusp of morning, darkness still veiling the view outside the window. Eyes half-lidded with exhaustion, he mechanically pulled himself out of bed and yanked on a pair of trousers and a simple, dark green button-up he'd borrowed from Draco. The shirt was a bit long in the arms, but that was easily fixed by a pair of silver cuff-links Lucius gifted him.

The Malfoys were certainly very generous. Sometimes, Harry wondered if they hadn't an ulterior motive, but the boy was well accustomed to people using him. At least he was clean, fed thrice a day, and his room wasn't the size of a broom cupboard. And their library was fantastic.

Now that he was living with the Malfoys, Harry realized the extent of his celebrity. Draco explained the wards on the owlery, sorting through mail, newspress and packages. An elf stopped by his room every few days to deposit an extensive pile of fan-mail, usually addressed to _'Our Hero'_ or the _'Boy-Who-Lived'_.

Draco rifled through some with him, laughing uproariously at the propositions for marriage and the ahem, undergarments occasionally slipped into the envelopes. "But I don't know any of these people, Draco," he had said in astonishment. A child had crudely drawn him a picture of a dark-haired baby, a woman with blazing red hair and a man with glasses. It was his mother and father. "Why do they call me their hero? I'm just Harry."

The blonde stared at him. "You really don't know? Oh, Merlin. Just - wait here."

Several minutes passed and Harry became increasingly distressed. Finally, Draco reappeared with his mother in tow. Narcissa had her hair pleated, hanging like a curtain down her back. Her day robe was dark purple and stitched with a floral pattern, fitting around her waist with a black leather belt. The buckle was in the shape of a dragon claw.

"Oh, darling," she said softly, staring down at the child. He was slumped on the floor, a circle of unopened letters around him. "No one told you?"

"Told me _what?"_ Harry said with growing frustration. His fists clenched, trembling dangerously.

She was quiet for a moment. "Harry, dear, I have a story to tell you," lifting her skirt, she sat primly on the ground beside him. Draco took her cue and settled quietly next to his dark-haired friend. "It's about a man known to us as the 'Dark Lord'. To dare speak his true name is blasphemy, and names have inordinate power. A taboo was placed on his name, as the Dark Lord already had enough power to raze the wizarding world, which is exactly what he sought to do. They now call him 'He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named' or, more simply 'You-Know-Who'."

The conversation explaining Harry's stardom and the Dark Lord's disappearance had lasted longer than Narcissa had hoped, but eventually, she got to the worst of it. "We do not usually advertise this, but I believe it's best to be candid. When Lucius was very young and very naive, he joined You-Know-Who's cause."

Harry's eyes widened, and Narcissa was swift to explain. "Lucius was pressured into it by his father, you see. Abraxas went to school with the Dark Lord and wished for his legacy to continue."

"Why . . . ?"

"You must understand the Dark Lord was a powerful, intoxicating presence in the early years. The Dark Lord was very popular with purebloods, preaching supremacy and the downfall of Muggles, which was reason enough for many old families to give their support. My sister followed the Dark Lord and was imprisoned for her actions. She had a particular attunement to Dark Magic, a type of magic the Ministry has fought hard to restrict.

"You-Know-Who wanted to reinstate Dark Magic and prove to the naysayers that 'there is no good or evil, only power,'" Narcissa quoted, grimly admiring. "He wanted equal rights for all magical creatures, werewolf and wizard alike . . . but eventually, his views became skewed. His attempt at fixing the government became a reign of terror and Lucius was caught right in the middle of it. We had just married and, with Draco on the way, he couldn't turn traitor less You-Know-Who reaped our lives as payment."

Harry tentatively reached for Narcissa's hand, which had begun shaking. "That's okay, you don't need to tell me anymore," he told her quietly.

Narcissa shook her head, expression pained. "You ended a reign of terror that nearly destroyed my family. Lucius, I admit, was drunk on the power the Dark Lord offered him, but he's tried his very best to rebuild the Malfoy name."

Harry watched in horror as she burned every last one of his fan letters.

"This hero-worshiping is ridiculous," she said to the boy. "These _sheeple_ placed an infant on a pedestal, and no doubt they will use you as a scapegoat when - _if -_ the Dark Lord returns." Narcissa took a deep breath. "There have been stirrings of the Dark Lord's return, and if he does . . . perhaps things will be different. Perhaps _he_ will be different - and your parent's deaths wouldn't have been for naught."

Harry rubbed his head, scar stinging fiercely.

He was a goddamned _celebrity_ \- a celebrity whose stomach rolled in dread at the very thought of such attention. He was famous because he survived a murder attempt, by the same wizard who killed his parents. A wizard that the Malfoys supported, if only a bit -

 ** _But he can't be all bad, can he?_** the voice whispered, twining about his mind. **_The Dark Lord wasn't the one to send you to the Dursleys, the one to abandon you at that orphanage._** Harry drew into himself, letting the darkness roil inside him until the heat soothed his pain. **_Like the woman says, he helped the misfits - the_** **outsiders -** ** _and tried to give them power. He only hurt the people in his way, the people that hurt_** **him** **_. . . sounds familiar, doesn't it?_**

* * *

 ** _*_** _'Once bitten,_ ** _twice shy'_ ****-** William Caxton, _Aesope_

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

After being tossed into unknown territories, Harry is roaming blind, testing his boundaries and making the best of a strange situation. Earlier, Harry put his faith into an adult and was once more disappointed, making him dubious of the Malfoy's kindness - though he certainly isn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Theme of poem: Affluence


	7. Judgement Day

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Seven:**

 **Judgement Day**

 _You and I a **r** e stardust, unseen specks hurled from unknown supernovas; explod **i** ng in **d** eep space an etern **i** ty away, carried away o **n** **g** alactic winds, cosmic dandelions scattered through limitless nights, a universe apart, random, yet converging over millions, billions, o **f** yea **r** s; all th **e** galaxi **e** s, stars, gods along the way, somehow indifferent to our passage or conspiring to let us move on in an endless drift. _ *****

 _-_ Bernard Chan, _Stardust Memories_

* * *

 _September 1st, 1991_

"We're going to be _late_ ," Draco whined, glancing around the bustling train station. He wasn't comfortable bumping against Muggles and the like, but his mother had insisted they take the 'memorable' route rather than use the floo.

"Oh, hush, Draco, we'll catch the Express on time," Narcissa murmured, clenching his hand tightly in her gloved one. Harry was on her other side, taking in measured breaths as the crowd shifted around them.

" - packed with Muggles, of course, " A voice broke out. Harry scrutinized the crowd, catching sign of four worn trunks. Atop the largest of which, a scruffy owl preened in it's cage. The speaker was a short, homely woman, beckoning four boys towards the platform between nine and ten. She was covered with several layers of faded, mismatched clothing, immensely sloppy compared to Narcissa's long-sleeved, sapphire blue dress.

"Oh, fantastic," Lucius sneered intently at the backs of their orange-topped heads. "The _Weasleys."_

Narcissa's glacial glare silenced him. "Don't create a scene, Lucius," she warned. "Or we _will_ be late."

"Now, what was the platform number again?"

"Nine-and-three-quarters!" The small girl tugged on her mother's fraying skirt. "Oh, mum, can't I go?"

"You're not old enough, Ginny, now be quiet," she hushed, running an absent hand over her daughter's long copper hair. "Alright, Percy dear, you first." They watched as a tall, stiff-backed teenager walked toward the division between Platforms Nine and Ten, and abruptly vanished into the brick. Shortly after, a thick-set man and two identical, fiendish-looking boys dashed through the barrier.

Flipping back her shawl, the mother grabbed her daughter's hand. Harry realized with a blush that he was even shorter than the youngest red-head. "Come, Ron," the mother urged the stringy boy. "You'll want to find a good seat." In the blink of an eye, the family disappeared.

"They have a boy my age," Draco said, nose scrunched. "We have to be in _class_ with one, can you believe it?"

Lucius' foot was nearly crushed by a trolley, and he clicked his tongue angrily. "Alright, no more lollygagging, let's go. "

Draco made sure that his eagle owl's cage was safely wedged on top of his trunk. "Oh, be quiet, Regina," he scolded the squawking creature. "She doesn't like the cage," he informed Harry, wheeling his trunk around to face the barrier. Harry felt a twang of jealousy, looking at the regal bird, her feathers sleek and her eyes shining. He'd quite like a pet, he thought.

"Follow me, Harry, this'll be fun," Once the coast was clear, he bent low over his trolley and urged it forward. The boy vanished in an instant, Lucius following shortly after.

"You'll be perfectly fine, Harry," Narcissa directed him toward the brick. "Now go, before Draco gets impatient."

Taking a deep breath, Harry began at a slow pace, slowly gaining speed. He leaned back at the last moment, a flinch beginning to tighten in his muscles. He expected several things; a vacuum-like sensation, sucking him onto the platform - or perhaps it would feel like going underwater. Instead, Harry kept on running. The wall faded away like smoke, revealing a scarlet steam engine waiting next to a platform packed with people.

Dark smoke hovered over his head, pets weaving around his feet. Harry caught sight of a chubby boy and his grandmother bickering about his lost toad. The handsome droll of a young prefect sounded somewhere to his left. Harry pushed on, in search of his blonde friend. Draco had found a compartment, inconspicuously hidden in the back train car. His father levitated their trunks into the overhead shelves.

Voices traveled from the platform, farewells and platitudes shouted as the train began to whistle. "Oh - my boy," Narcissa pulled Draco into a tight embrace, smoothing his hair and fixing his robes. "I will miss you dearly. Send me updates every week, like you promised?" When he reached up to kiss her cheek, she brought her lips to his ear. "Take care of Harry, will you?"

Lucius merely nodded at his son, though his silver eyes were soft, his words tinged with pride. "You will succeed, my son, I've no doubt. Offer my well wishes to Severus, will you?"

Harry stayed behind, overwhelmed by the sudden urge to hug Narcissa. The woman, as if noticing his hesitance, placed a comforting hand on Harry's head. She fixed the strands with a maternal touch, shaking her head as the curls popped back into disarray.

"You're a very brave boy," she said with a kind smile, eyes watering. "It would be an honor to call you my son."

Harry wiped his eyes, feeling the tell-tale sting of tears. "Thank you, Narcissa," he whispered, staring up through his fringe. "And you, Mister Malfoy. For everything."

Lucius slowly inclined his head, lips lifting in a barely perceptible smile. "At this point, I suppose it'd be poignant if you called me Lucius. Now, off with you. I have the same expectations for excellence for you as I do Draco. Make us proud."

Harry nodded hurriedly, rushing onto the train as the doors began to slide shut.

Draco and the other students waved out to the dispersing families. The Hogwarts Express chugged to live and soon rounded the corner, the platform disappearing along with the Malfoys.

The countryside now flying past the window was becoming wilder. The neat fields had gone and now there were woods, twisting rivers, and dark green hills. There was a knock on the door of their compartment and a round-face boy tentatively stepped in.

He sniffled wetly, wiping the snot from his face.

Draco looked up with irritation, having being interrupted from his retelling of the time he'd accidentally magicked off the feathers of one of the Malfoy's many peacocks.

"Sorry," the boy whispered, "But have you seen a toad at all? I've lost him! He keeps getting away from me!"

"I'm sure he'll turn up," Harry told him reassuringly.

Draco sneered. "You should be grateful it's gone. Pathetic choice for a pet, anyways."

"Trevor's not pathetic. Just . . ."

" _Pathetic_ ," Draco insisted. Harry jabbed him in the side. "Ouch!"

"I'll keep an eye out for your toad," Harry politely opened the door. The boy nodded gratefully and stumbled his way out.

Draco shook his head. "What a disgrace. That's Longbottom, the son of an Auror. His parents went crazy, did you know? Tortured until drool dripped from their mouths. I don't know how he even got into Hogwarts, he's basically a Squib. I've got more magic in my little pinky than he does in his whole body."

A few minutes later, as Draco was showing Harry a passage in _Hogwarts, A History_ , about the Slytherin commons, the two were once more interrupted.

"Have you seen a toad? Neville's lost one." They looked up to see a rather imposing eleven-year old standing in front of him. She stood like a scolding matron, hands upon her hips. Her hair was large and curly, and she had a pair of protruding front teeth.

"Like we've already told the fat one, we haven't seen any toads," Draco said boredly.

The girl sighed in frustration before her squinted gaze fell upon the book in his hand.

"Oh!" She squealed, making Harry jump a bit in his seat. "Is that a First-Edition copy? Does it really include a map of the dungeons? That's what the sign at Flourish & Blotts said, but the book was awfully expensive. My mum thought it was a great waste of money for such a little thing. I got it second-hand, anyhow, and that's perfectly fine. I've read all our course books by heart, of course, but it's always good to have a bit more knowledge on the castle beforehand. I've never seen a real castle close-up before, and nobody in my family's magic at all - "

Somehow, Draco's expression became even more disgusted. "Honestly, do you _ever_ stop talking?"

The girl gaped at his brazen attitude, cheeks turning red. "Well - I - that's awfully rude! I was just about to introduce myself," she turned to Harry, clearly the more inviting of the two. "I'm Hermione Granger. Who are you? And who's your arrogant _friend?"_

Draco made a horribly offended noise. "You stupid mudblood, do you know who I am? Do you know who _he_ is?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "That's what I'm trying to _ask,_ you gormless swine," she said, just as crassly.

Harry decided he rather liked her. "Pleasure to meet you, Hermione. I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

"Are you really?" she gaped. 'I know all about you, of course – I got a few extra books for background reading, and you're in _Modern Magical History_ and _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts_ and _Great Wizarding Events of the Twentieth Century."_

Harry looked at Draco in surprise. "Am I?"

Draco nodded seriously.

Hermione promptly sat herself across from Harry and smoothed her skirt. "Do you know what house you'll be in? I've been asking around and I hope I'm in Gryffindor, it sounds by far the best; I heard even Dumbledore himself was one. But I suppose Ravenclaw wouldn't be too bad - "

"Gryffindor!" Draco laughed. "You'd fit right in. We'll be in Slytherin, of course."

The girl furrowed her brows. "You can't know that," she rebutted.

Draco sat up higher. "I can too!"

"Cannot."

" _Can. Too."_ Never let it be said that Draco would tolerate being told what he could and couldn't do.

Hermione's nostrils flared. "The Sorting Hat - "

" _Fuck_ the Sorting Hat." Draco sat down, crossing his arms smugly. Hermione spluttered, her hair frizzing like a cat's.

Harry was hiding behind his book, resisting giggles of delight. He wasn't even at Hogwarts and things had already gotten interesting.

* * *

 _Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry_

The hall burst into raucous applause as the Sorting Hat finished it's chant.

"See!" Draco said proudly, poking Hermione in the back. "Slytherin's not so bad."

Despite the concept's simplicity, the hat seemed to be asking rather a lot; Harry didn't feel particularly brave or quick-witted at the moment. If only the hat had mentioned a house for those who felt a bit queasy, _that_ would have been the one for him. In fact, Harry wouldn't have been surprised if the hat just refused to Sort him at all.

 _. . . Could that happen?_

 ** _It may . . ._** Harry wasn't sure if the voice was teasing or not.

His panic was brought to a halt as Professor McGonagall stepped forward, holding a long roll of parchment. She cleared her throat, and the Hall went silent once more. "When I call your name," she began imperiously. "You will put on the hat and sit on the stool to be sorted."

The professor delicately unrolled the parchment before peering over the tops of her spectacles. "Abbott, Hannah," she enunciated. A pink-faced girl with short pigtails stumbled out of line and allowed McGonagall to plop the hat over her eyes.

As the Sorting continued, Harry noticed, sometimes, that the hat shouted out the house at once, but at others it took a little while to decide. Hermione had what Draco called a 'near Hatstall', the sorting lasting for more than a minute before deciding to place her in Gryffindor, just as she wished.

"Can the hat refuse to Sort us?" Harry murmured to Draco, hands wringing nervously. Draco was about to laugh at the absurdity of his question before seeing the genuine anxiety in Harry's green eyes. Draco stared at the boy in amazement.

"Are you serious?" he whispered back furiously. "You're the bloody Boy-Who-Lived! It'd be mad not to Sort you, but only into the very _best_ House, of course," Harry rolled his eyes. The toad boy was sorted into Gryffindor, a surprise to Draco who was certain the Squib would be a 'measly Hufflepuff'.

Despite his bravado, Draco nearly had an aneurysm when his name was called, clenching Harry's arm so hard he thought the fragile bone would break. Maintaining his composure, Draco sent Harry a grin before swaggering up to the stool.

The hat barely touched his head before calling out "SLYTHERIN!"

Before Harry knew it, "Perks, Sally-Ann!" became a Hufflepuff and "Potter, Harry!" was called. Ron nudged him forward, giving him an encouraging smile.

The whispers were horrible. _'Potter, did she say?'_ 'The _Harry Potter?' 'Merlin, he's so small!' 'Two sickles he's a Gryffindor.'_

From the head table, a man with long white hair and bright blue eyes stared him down with a vaguely expectant expression. Heart in his throat, Harry shakily approached the platform. The Sorting Hat was swiftly slipped over his eyes and everything went deadly quiet. Not even the voice in his head had a word of assurance to office.

Harry jolted violently as the Sorting Hat sounded in his ear.

"Difficult," a scratchy voice sounded in his ear, and Harry could swear he felt hot air against his neck. "Very difficult. Plenty of strength, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, oh my goodness, yes - and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting . . . So where shall I put you?"

Harry gripped the edges of the stool. "Isn't that _your_ job?"

The hat let out a chuckle. "It is indeed," he dug a bit deeper and Harry gasped, seeing the familiar vision of blinding green. "Oh, my apologies," the hat said softly. "Like I said, the choice is rather difficult. You could be great in Slytherin, you know, it's all here in your head. And Slytherin will help you on the way to greatness, no doubt about that. But there's something else, too - you wish to find a family here, don't you? One to replace the poor excuse you suffered with," Behind Harry's eyelids, he thought he could see flickering flames, the repressed memory causing his breath to hitch.

"I see _everything_ ," the voice responded darkly. "Memories, wishes, desires, daydreams, visions. You're not so different, child, from another wizard I once knew," Harry had an inkling as to whom. "But do not let that scar govern the choices you make," it said seriously. "Now, I suppose the hatstall has gone on long enough."

The hat cleared it's throat loudly, making his decision.

"Better be . . . " it hedged. "HUFFLEPUFF!"

* * *

Harry was greeted by silence as the hat was pulled off his head.

Professor McGonagall's face was impassive, but she was the only one who at least _acted_ unaffected by the Boy-Who-Lived's unpredicted Sorting. Draco was in shock, a look of pallid horror on his face.

Finally, the Hufflepuffs seemed to realize they weren't living in a dream, and they burst into a resounding applause. The older student whooped and thumbed their noses at the sulking Gryffindors.

One of the redhead twins stood up abruptly, bringing his hands around his mouth. "Re-sort!" he called, trying to gather support. His brother, the prefect, promptly walloped him upside the head.

Harry didn't let the dissension irk him as he moved to sit in between a smug yellow-haired boy and a grinning brunette.

The blonde patted his back, smirking. "Name's Zacharias Smith; I'm descended from Hufflepuff herself, it's an honor to have you, Potter."

As the sorting ended with 'Zabini, Blaise," taking a seat beside Draco, the headmaster called for silence.

"Welcome," Dumbledore called out. "Welcome to a new year at Hogwarts! Before we begin our banquet, I would like to say a few words. And here they are: Nitwit! Blubber! Oddment! Tweak! Thank you," He finished.

As food appeared, the Hufflepuffs raised their glasses in respect.

"He's insane," Zacharias said, reaching for a leg of lamb.

"Utterly mad!" the brunette chirped, digging into his own steak.

Harry picked nervously at his plate of potatoes, the chatter of Hufflepuff table surrounding him as his fellow first years acquainted themselves. The girls, Hannah Abbott and Susan Bones, chatted cheerfully amongst the older students.

After swallowing a his food, the boy with sharp blue eyes and a mess of brown curls nudged him. "Hullo," he greeted. "'M Wayne. Wayne Hopkins. Hope we'll be sharing a dorm!"

"Harry," he said, hesitantly stretching out a hand. Wayne shook it enthusiastically, grinning. "Harry Potter."

"'Course, I know who you are!" Wayne enthused, grabbing a plate and piling it with various meats. "Not only are you, you know, rather notorious in the wizarding world, but my mum knew yours in school. They were partners in Transfiguration." Harry's eyebrow arched.

"Really? Was my mum good at Transfiguration?" he asked.

"No worse than mum. They did alright," Wayne shrugged. "McGonagall's supposed to be very strict, but fair. My older brother Paul is a Gryffindor, and he's told me stories. I certainly don't pity the poor fool who crosses McGonagall's bad side. No," he swallowed a chunk of sausage. "What I'm _really_ looking forward to is Herbology; Professor Sprout - she's our Head - teaches it."

Blanching at the influx of information, Harry turned to the Head Table. "Do you know who's who? I recognize a few. Is Professor Quirrell a Head of House?"

Wayne shook his head, choking on his laughter. "Quirrell isn't 'ahead' of anything," he chortled at his own pun. "He used to be the Muggle Studies professor and everyone knows that class is rubbish; Paul dropped it after a year. It's an easy _'O'_ , for certain, but they haven't updated the textbook since horse-drawn carriages went out of style. Anyways," he shook his head. "Quirrell teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts now. He took a sabbatical last year and suddenly thinks he's Auror material. We'll have to see how he does."

Harry tilted his head dubiously. "The man seems scared of his own shadow. Who's that sitting beside him?"

Tanned cheeks went pale. "Snape," he whispered in mock horror. "He's the resident Potion's Master and Head of Slytherin. If you think McGonagall's strict, Snape is practically the Antichrist. Despises all non-Slytherins, takes points for _breathing_ too loudly and feeds you botched potions if you mess around in his classroom. I pity Paul even more for being a Gryffindor; Snape has a vendetta against all of them, even the quiet ones. Neville will probably been eaten alive," he nodded towards the dark-haired Gryffindor, who was blushing furiously as the Weasley twins poked fun at him.

"How awful," Harry murmured around a bite of food. "He keeps glaring at me."

Wayne arched an eyebrow. "Well, we won't have Potions for a few days, so don't have to suffer his company until then," the boy grinned. "Personally, I'm excited for History of Magic, Paul says that a _ghost_ teaches it! He must have so many cool stories - "

By the time the meal concluded, Harry was exhausted. He and the other Hufflepuff first-years trudged down to the basement of the school, their stomachs laden with their full, rich meal. "The basement is warmer than the dungeons and more tranquil than the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Towers," their prefect, Gabriel Truman, told them. He was walking backwards, pointing out various artifacts and classrooms on the way to the common room.

They reached a pile of barrels and stopped. "Pretty inconspicuous, huh? Well, it's fairly simple to get in," Gabriel crouched down to the barrel two from the bottom, rapping out a strange beat with his wand. _"Hel-ga Huff-le-puff,"_ he murmured, loud enough for the clustered first-years to hear.

"There's no weekly password to remember, no riddle like the Ravenclaws use, but don't think that our security is lax," Gabriel explained slyly. "You have three chances to chose the correct barrel and get the password right, otherwise intruders will be doused with vinegar. When that happens, a camera goes off right here," Gabriel gestured between the barrels where Harry could see a glint of silver. "And we pass the pictures around at mealtimes," he grinned. "All in good sport, of course."

The lid popped open, revealing a short passage down into a wide atrium. Harry was immediately blasted with a sense of warmth. The students stumbled through a short tunnel, the bottom sloping downward like a slide.

Harry stared about the room in thinly concealed amazement.

The room was domed by a low pyramidic ceiling, the space wide and long. Green foliage climbed the sandstone walls, natural light shining in through high-positioned windows. There were two sets of stairs leading even lower into the basement, presumably to the student's dorms. Soft music played throughout the room; Muggle jazz, Harry was surprised to note. A large bookshelf held many notable classics - _The Secret Garden, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, To Kill a Mockingbird._ A plethora of Muggle puzzle and game pieces were scattered across a table between two overstuffed chairs.

Gabriel led the first years over to a set of green couches beside a roaring fireplace.

A portrait of Helga Hufflepuff quietly scrutinized the crowd. She smiled down at them, flicking a light-brown curl from her bright hazel eyes. Zacharias Smith waved heartily at his descendant, frowning when she merely nodded courteously at him.

"Welcome," Gabriel said resoundingly, crossing his hands over his front. "To Hufflepuff."

* * *

 ** _*_ **_'If wishes were horses, beggars would be_ ** _riding free'_ ****-** James Carmichael, _Proverbs in Scots_

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

While the term 'Judgement Day' is often used to reference the end of the world, in this scenario, it applies to the metaphorical death of Harry's past and a rebirth into his new life. It's also in reference to the Sorting Hat's judgement of each student's character in order to determine their entire future.

'Riding free', I'd like to think of as a positive term about independence and freedom, but the entire idiom suggests that if wishing could make things happen, then even the most destitute of people would have everything they wanted. For the Sorting Hat, he must make the executive decision that might not be ideal for everyone, but is for the common good.

Theme of poem: Journey

REASONING FOR SORTING:

I'd like to think of Hufflepuff as the 'jack of all trades' house, accepting of all character traits and values. Hufflepuffs are generally loyal, tolerant, unafraid and dedicated, which Harry, at his very core, is.

I did consider Harry in Slytherin, a place that would welcome his jaded persona. Even if not all Slytherins are bad, there is still a stigma that would hurt Harry rather than help him. Slytherin would only encourage his negative attitude and make the darkness in him grow. The Sorting Hat is trying to make a decision that will be best, not only for the child, but everyone else in the school. Having their revered celebrity in Hufflepuff may even lessen the belief that Hufflepuffs are spineless pushovers.

Hufflepuff will teach Harry that not all people are like the Dursleys, and Harry will teach the Hufflepuffs that blind faith is often harmful.

This is a morally grey Harry I'm trying to create, and if he relies entirely on the Malfoys and the horcrux in his head, he'll only dig himself into a hole. Harry is still a person with flaws and fears, not just a hardened, abused child. He's a survivor, and he's trying to make the best out of what's he's got. This Harry will not be a blind savior to the Light, but neither will he be a cruel warrior for the dark.

He's just himself, imperfections and all.


	8. Sheep's Clothing

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Eight:**

 **Sheep's Clothing**

 _In li **f** e there is nothing more unexpected **a** nd surprising than the arr **i** vals a **n** d depar **t** ures **of** pleasure. If we find it in one place to-day, it is vain to seek it t **he** re to-morrow. You c **a** n not lay a t **r** ap for i **t**. _ *****

 _-_ Alexander Smith, _The Fear of Dying_

* * *

 _Early September, 1991_

Despite Wayne's enthusiasm for the class, Professor Binns was easily the most monotonous instructor Harry had ever witnessed; and he had dealt with Mother Magdalena for three years.

Professor Binns had been very old indeed when he had fallen asleep in front of the staff room fire and got up next morning to teach, leaving his body behind him. Binns droned on in a dull tone as the Hufflepuffs scribbled down names and dates, at least half the class nodding off. Harry sat between Susan Bones and Wayne, the former of which thankfully a concise note-taker.

As Binns floated a piece of chalk to the board, Susan read ahead in the textbook, making comments on the margins.

Susan just smiled when Harry tilted his head curiously. "My uncle was a magical historian," she whispered, twirling a strand of deep red hair. "He wrote, like, three manuscripts to revise the textbook, but they were destroyed when his house was attacked. My Aunty Amelia is trying to recreate them from his notes and I want to help, but I need to know more than just goblin wars."

Harry was silent for a moment. "I'm sure the library has more textbooks to look through," he pointed out. "I don't know where it is, but Wayne does. We could study with you there later, maybe?"

"Evans," Binns barked out, peering over his silvery spectacles to look over Harry's shoulder. "No chatting."

Harry's brow scrunched. "That's not even close to my name," he whispered to Wayne, who smirked at his immediate disobedience. Wayne shrugged hopelessly, gnawing on the end of his quill.

Susan prodded at his arm. "Here," she mouthed, passing over a slip of parchment.

 _"I'll come to the library with you during break,'_ her impeccable handwriting said. _'If it's alright with Wayne?'_

Glancing over to his new companion, Harry and Susan giggled. Wayne had fallen asleep, his head hanging back and a strand of drool trailing down his chin. "I'm sure he'll be ecstatic," Harry whispered.

Their second hour of the day was Transfiguration. Wayne had been quite right to think she wasn't a teacher to cross. Strict and clever, she gave them a talking-to the moment they sat down in her first class.

"Transfiguration is some of the most complex and dangerous magic you will learn at Hogwarts," she said. "Anyone messing around in my class will leave and not come back. You have been warned," she pointed her wand at them seriously, before swiveling around and turning her desk into a pig.

Impressed, the Hufflepuffs clapped. McGonagall rolled her eyes, but had the hint of a smile on her face. Zacharias raised his hand, wiggling it excitedly in the air. "Professor McGonagall! How come the pig isn't dead, since it was conjured from, well, wood?"

"Fine question," she noted. "There are many branches of Transfiguration, and what you just witnessed is what we call 'Inanimate to animate' transfiguration." With a twitch of her wand, the swine snorted and returned to wood. "And vice versa. But you won't be changing furniture into animals for a few months yet. For now, we'll be studying simple transformations, such as turning a match into a needle. Turn to chapter one in your books, please."

Susan was the first to complete the transformation, with Zacharias coming in close second place. "Visualize the needle," McGonagall couched, pacing slowly around the room. "See the glinting silver point, and the minuscule pinhole. Imagine the wood morphing into smooth, cold silver- the tip becoming sharp enough to pierce skin. It's all about intent, children, and you want this _match_ to become a needle, don't you?" Her voice almost came as a purr, which wasn't surprising, as her animagus form was a tabby cat.

Harry was a patient student, and it paid off. By the end of the class, his needle had a faint metallic sheen and a small pinhole where the red tip had once been. McGonagall granted the succeeding students only a few inches of homework.

Next, they had Charms with Professor Flitwick, a tiny half-goblin that had to stand on a pile of books to see over his desk. When Flitwick reached Harry's name on the roll call, he gave an excited squeak and toppled out of sight.

The accompanying Gryffindors laughed quite uproariously, while Hermione peeked over the edge of her desk to see if he was alright. "Yes, yes, quite alright," the man flustered, pulling himself up. "Now!"

He launched into a lesson on simplistic charms, beginning with the easiest of them all. "I daresay this chapter on the _Lumos_ spell is certainly _enlightening,"_ Flitwick chortled, his dark beard rustling against his chest.

"He's got your sense of humor," Harry leaned over, murmuring to Wayne. The boy shoved him away, snickering.

The class everyone had _really_ been looking forward to was Defense Against the Dark Arts, but Quirrell's lessons turned out to be a bit of a joke. His classroom smelled strongly of garlic, which everyone said was to ward off a vampire he'd crossed on his sabbatical. His turban, Quirrell told them, had been given to him by an African prince as a thank-you for getting rid of a troublesome zombie, but this was debatable.

Wayne, while moving to sit by his assigned partner - a Ravenclaw named Terry - accidentally dropped his book. The resounding clap caused Quirrell to flinch violently and drop his wand. Not that he really needed a wand; the man's spells were terribly weak, so he relied on visual aids rather than magical ones. Their first class, he brought in a bucketful of snails to exhibit their incredible defense mechanism. Zacharias and Ernie Macmillan were called to the front to take turns shouting at the snails until their shells turned orange and their undersides began to secrete an acidic slime.

"Fascinating, no?" Quirrell chattered, slipping on black gloves. With a tremulous hand, he collected the slime into a vial, the viscous liquid letting out puffs of yellow steam.

"I -if you're in a d-duel and have a bottle of this o - on you, your opponent had better r-run fast and run hard, less they want the skin to melt off their faces and their eyes to boil like eggs!" he laughed.

The class winced in unison.

"What a creepy man," Susan mused, thoroughly unsettled.

Harry, and the voice in his head, agreed. **_How . . . odd._**

"We're gonna be late, we're gonna be late, we're gonna - " Wayne flew about the dorm room, frantically tossing parchment and quills into his messenger bag before reaching under the bed for his potions textbook.

"You're the only one who still isn't dressed!" Zacharias said from the door, his foot tapping impatiently.

Wayne grabbed his tie from the stack of laundry, looping it haphazardly around his neck. _"You're_ the one that spent an hour in the bathroom doing your hair!" he snapped back. Zach's patted his hair insecurely, the curly strands flattened with a healthy dose of _Sleekeazy._

"Yes, well, speaking of. Harry, your hair is atrocious. Have you ever brushed it in your life?" he offered his tube of gel, raising a brow. Harry politely declined.

As soon as Wayne finished tugging on his shoes, laces undone, they crossed into the common room. Several upperclassmen were lying half-asleep on the couches while others were studying or eating from the bowl of fruit.

The Potions classroom was a staircase down from the Hufflepuff dorms, but they were still some of the last students to arrive. Susan Bones and Hannah Abbot looked a trifle green as they stared at the jars of pickled animals. Punctual as ever, the Ravenclaws had already found themselves seats at the front of the classroom. Ernie had saved Zacharias a seat, as usual, while Wayne sat beside Justin Finch-Fletchley.

Harry found a desk next to a brown-skinned Ravenclaw girl.

"Padma Patil," she introduced herself with a firm handshake. Her fingers were smudged with ink.

"Pleasure." He began setting out a quill and his book just as Snape came billowing in through the door.

The Potion's Master was a very tall man, with pallid features and a beaked nose. The light in the dungeons washed out his skin, the flickering lantern light causing his dark blue eyes to glimmer with malice.

Without delay, Professor Snape launched into roll call, meeting each student's eyes with a turned up nose and a sneer. He pausing briefly at Harry's name, his pale lips twisting into a scowl. "Ah, yes," he said in a soft voice. "Harry Potter. Our new . . . celebrity."

Harry sunk into his chair.

"Potter!" The professor exclaimed suddenly. "What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"

Harry glanced at Padma, whose brows were furrowed in bewilderment. During his stay at the Malfoy's, Harry had attempted to read the Potion's textbook - but this question certainly wasn't in the first three chapters.

As Snape tapped his foot on the stone floor, Harry remembered his hands in the dirt, Aunt Petunia snapping out the difference between weeds and flowers. "Well, the root of onionweed - another name for asphodel," he said hurriedly. "Is incredibly poisonous. Wormwood, while it doesn't kill you, is known to cause insomnia. If you brew the asphodel with wormwood, its effects would be lessened, causing a - a sleeping potion, I guess? Rather than a deadly poison."

Snape's nostrils flared. "As you said, asphodel and wormwood do indeed make a sleeping potion, one so powerful it is known as the Draught of Living Death. However, since you have such a _superior_ knowledge of plants and their properties, explain to me what the difference is between monkshood and wolfsbane."

 ** _Trick question._**

Harry gained confidence. "They're the same plant. More commonly known as aconite."

 ** _Sir._**

"Sir."

Snape stared down over his long, crooked nose. "Once more, that is correct, Mr. Potter." Snape said finally, his voice a bit strained. "However, five points from Hufflepuff. I have no patience for little know-it-alls, understand me?"

"What? But you _asked_ him - " Zacharias started, irritated more about the loss of points than anything.

"Another five points, Smith, for your undue interruption. Now, quills out!"

The other Hufflepuffs, while irritated on behalf of their peers, scrambled for their supplies. Things didn't improve for Harry as the Potions lesson continued. Snape put them all into pairs and set them to mixing up a simple potion to cure boils.

Harry was left with Padma, who murmured angrily under her breath about unfair treatment. "I'm used to it," Harry told her wryly. "Don't get upset on my behalf."

"Still!" she persisted, adamant. "The headmaster should never allow this!"

Snape swept around in his long black cloak, watching them weigh dried nettles and crush snake fangs. "Allow _what,_ Miss Patil?" the man rumbled from behind her, nearly causing Padma to drop her glass rod. "The gossiping of students, while they ought to be stirring _clockwise?"_ Padma winced and began stirring in the opposite direction. "I, too, agree. It is _most_ bothersome." The man stalked away to criticize Justin and Wayne's cauldron of "Utter _slop!"_

Padma stared despondently down at the potion, sniffing. Harry finished preparing the porcupine quills and nudged her out of the way. "I'll finish it," he pried the rod from her fingers.

The Ravenclaw wiped her face and gave a shaky smile. "Phlegm will make the potion unsalvageable, anyways."

Harry laughed, not knowing she was serious. "Lower the temperature for the quills, please?"

At the end of the class period, Snape peered over their cauldron. The potion was a dull azure, brighter than most, but lumpy. "Adequate," he said, as if it pained him. With a twitch of his wand, it siphoned away into a tall, thin vial. "But for future lessons, Miss Patil, refrain from idle chatter when you ought to be paying attention. Had I not caught you when I had, the counterclockwise movements would have caused the Boil Cure to turn astringent. If some fool deigned to drink it, their boils would constrict quite suddenly and erupt, leaving wrinkle-like scars on the skin."

Padma gagged and Snape smirked. "Quite so."

"That was bollocks," Zacharias said, plopping down on the grass, an apple in hand. He took a vicious bite out of it, lips glistening with the juice. "Utter bollocks."

Justin let out a vague noise of agreement, still sore that his Boil Cure had been vanished. "He's not teaching us anything, just yelling at us until our ears bleed!"

"You had an easy time of it, Justin," Harry groaned, leaning back against a tree. "He singled me out in front of the whole class!"

"You'll need to get used to that, I'm afraid," Zacharias said unsympathetically. "Surprise Hufflepuff, celebrity, potion's prodigy - if you don't want the attention, you might as well place a paper bag over your head." the blonde sniggered. "But then you'd get a whole different sort of attention. Especially from the psych ward at St. Mungo's."

Harry snorted.

"That isn't very nice," came a familiar chirp from behind them.

Dragging behind her an overflowing book bag, Hermione caught up to them. "Harry can't help being a celebrity. He was just a baby when You-Know-Who attacked. Isn't that right, Potter?" The girl tromped up next to him, her wild mass of hair crimped from her cauldron's hot steam.

"What would you know about that, Granger?" Zacharias sneered. Hermione was the first to successfully light her wand in Flitwick's class, much to Zacharias' distress. He was constantly coming second to _girls._

Hermione scowled at him irritably. "What, is Smith speaking for you now as well as Malfoy?"

Harry gave a lazy, bemused smirk. "No. Zach is just an arse."

"Quite right," Hermione's lips quirked at Zacharias' offended _'Hey!'_

"No one _wants_ you here, Granger," Zacharias hissed. "Flouncing about like some sort of deranged Ravenclaw, you're just a stupid Gryff - "

"Don't," Harry warned, spotting a Hufflepuff prefect scurrying past. "If you can't play nice, then don't play at all. That's right. Go," Harry shooed, ignoring Zach's hurt expression. "We'll see you in the commons later."

Zacharias stalked away, muttering obscenities beneath his breath.

"I can't believe the nerve of him," Hermione huffed, causing a loose strand of hair to billow up above her scalp.

Justin let out a chortle. "Serves him right, the stuck-up git."

As Harry listened with half an ear to their inane chatter, he spotted Draco in the field, surrounded by a group of Slytherins. Harry looked on with faint envy at their straight postures and casual sleekness.

The dynamics among the first-year Slytherins was apparent.

Blaise Zabini was dark-skinned and stony faced, his head shaved in a runic pattern. Blaise and Draco seemed to get along well, having both suffered through dozens of inter-family galas and yule celebrations since they were children. Draco was by far the more talkative of the two, while Blaise was an astonishingly patient listener.

Two of the four first-year girls gossiped together, Pansy Parkinson and Daphne Greengrass giggling over a magazine. Tracey Davis seemed to be afraid of the older students. She was very demure, with round glasses and an unattractive haircut. Millicent Bulstrode sat beside Tracey, wiping the sweat from her face as though the mere effort of walking outside was too much for her.

Theo was a stringy boy, with shoulder-length black hair and a clever demeanor. The boy was attempting to read from a Charms book, but Vincent Crabbe and Gregory Goyle kept trying to steal it. Goyle bellowed out in pain when Theo hexed his hands and slipped his wand away with a smirk.

Harry wondered what it would have been like if he was a Slytherin.

Draco hadn't spoken to him once since Harry's Sorting.

He wondered if their time together over the summer meant nothing.

His cheeks flushed red as Draco caught his stare. The blonde fidgeted nervously next to his friends, whispering something in Pansy Parkinson's ear. The girl lifted her nose but gave an uncaring shrug - as if to say _'go ahead. It's your funeral'._ Grabbing his book-bag, Draco glided over, holding his head high.

"Incoming snake," Justin said idly.

"I'm going to go," Hermione whispered, hugging her books to her chest. "Malfoy isn't a fan of muggleborns." Giving a sympathetic grimace to his green-eyed classmate, Justin followed shortly after.

Harry took in a deep breath as Draco came to stand above him, his expression unreadable. "What do you want, Malfoy?" Harry said tiredly, plucking at a piece of grass.

Draco was quiet for a moment. "Well, Potter," he said, lips quirking slightly. "You certainly thrive to be unpredictable, don't you? A Hufflepuff Savior," Draco shook his head, plopping down beside Harry. "Who'd have thought?"

* * *

 ** _*_** _'_ _Not for the_ ** _faint of heart'_**

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

Harry, among the Hufflepuffs, is a wolf in sheep's clothing. While Hufflepuffs are often thought of as faint-hearted, I'd like to think that living at Hogwarts, with all it's turmoil and strife, is not for the faint of heart.

Theme of Poem: Surprises


	9. One Stone

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Nine:**

 **One Stone**

 _When the lion roars an_ ** _d_** _makes himself hea_ ** _r_** _d_ ** _a_** _ll in the jungle shall listen. As he stalks his_ ** _p_** _r_ ** _e_** _y from hunger, he feels on his face that his eyes_ ** _d_** _o glisten. And as he's heard, all beasts do scatter_ ** _in_** _fear, lest_ ** _the_** _y be prey . . . Survival o_ ** _f_** _the fittest in every jung_ ** _l_** _e reminds me of how we_ ** _a_** _ct. For the world at lar_ ** _g_** _e is just the same as we are attacked, by the strong and mighty who feast upon the weakest of all men. And so the world we are living in is just like the lion's den._

\- Edwina Reizer, _Survival of the Fittest_

* * *

 _September 2nd, 1991_

 _'Dear Mother,_

 _As expected, I was sorted into Slytherin. I was a bit nervous, to be honest, but it was needless. The brim of that hat barely touched my head before calling out 'SLYTHERIN'. There was much applause. I'm happy to be upholding our family tradition. But it seemed we were both wrong about Harry. I really hoped he would end up in Slytherin with me, but after a near-hat stall, we are all very surprised that he turned out to be a bloody Hufflepuff! . . . '_

* * *

 _September 3rd_

 _' . . . I'm doing very well in school, but a buck-toothed Gryffindor girl has already proven that she has no life outside of classwork. She tries way too hard in class and is becoming quite the nuisance. Really, who writes a twelve-inch essay on the uses for the Wand-Lightening Spell? Your wand lights up. That's about it._

 _Professor Quirrell doesn't seem to like me much. Perhaps that's because Blaise and I make a point to question his qualifications every class, but he deserves it, really. In Potions, Professor Snape praised my stirring skills - I made the slightest mistake of adding too many snake fangs, but my potion turned out better than most. Stupid Longbottom blew up his cauldron and got botched boil cure_ everywhere _. I wasn't hurt, Longbottom got the brunt of it, thankfully.'_

* * *

 _September 5th_

 _'. . . Harry's alright, I guess. I accidentally pretended he didn't exist for a few days. I know I promised to watch him, but I was busy with my classes! He's always spending time with that mudblood girl and the Hufflepuff blood traitors - including Zacharias Smith, that really pompous boy that thinks he's descended from Helga Hufflepuff, remember? Stupid duffs.'_

* * *

 _September 6th_

 _' . . .I remembered what Father said about Hufflepuffs being steadfast and loyal. Having him live with us this summer was almost like having a brother. Harry is still the same, right? He'll forgive me? '_

* * *

 _September 7th_

' _He forgave me. But now he's invited me to speak to that stupid oaf, Hagrid! I thought father got Hagrid and Dumbledore in trouble after abandoning Harry at Diagon Alley, but I suppose the headmaster always finds his way to weasel out of things. Being in Hufflepuff has made Harry soft, he's actually thinking of_ forgiving _the stupid giant. At least there will be free food._

 _Love, your son, Draco.'_

Draco signed his letter and blew on the ink. He'd been writing his mother letters nearly everyday this past week. Blaise and Vincent, his dorm-mates, teased him constantly. He told them the constant stream of letters was because Narcissa had made him promise, but he'd made no such oath.

He would simply never admit in a million years that he missed his mum.

"Quick question: is Flobberworm Mucus more viscous or gelatinous?" Harry asked from across the table. They were in the library, a pile of finished homework done around them.

Draco shrugged. "What's the difference?"

Harry seemed to consider this, before making a quick mark on his paper. "Alright, I'm done. You ready to go?"

Draco sighed dramatically. "If we must."

At five to three they left the castle and made their way across the grounds.

Hagrid lived in a small wooden house on the edge of the forbidden forest. A crossbow and a pair of galoshes were outside the front door. When Harry knocked they heard a frantic scrabbling from inside and several booming barks. Then Hagrid's voice rang out, saying, "Back, Fang - back!"

Hagrid's big, hairy face appeared in the crack as he pulled the door open.

"Hang on," he said. "Back, Fang."

He let them in, struggling to keep a hold on the neck of an enormous black boar-hound. Thick drool dribbled down it's jowls, catching on the spiked collar. Fang eventually pulled away, collapsing with a large thump beside a massive bed with a patchwork quilt over it. The hut was large and round, eccentrically decorated with wooden crates, moleskin blankets, animal coats, skinned pheasants and copper pots. A kettle was boiling on the open fire, the flames dangerously licking upwards toward the ceiling.

"Make yerselves at home," Hagrid said jovially, reaching up to grasp a crate, settling it onto the rugged floors. "Tea? Cake?"

"This is Draco," Harry told Hagrid, who was pouring boiling water into a large teapot and putting rock cakes onto a plate. "He's a Slytherin."

"Oh," Hagrid frowned, glancing at Draco's badge. "Yer da's Lucius Malfoy, ain't he?"

Draco sniffed, reaching for a cake. "Yes, in fact, he is." He took a vehement bite of the cake and promptly choked. "Disgusting," he spat into a napkin.

The giant scowled, beckoning Harry to the kitchen sink. "Why'd yeh bring him, Harry? That Malfoy boy is nothin' but trouble, and his da' is the same."

"Draco's my friend, Hagrid," Harry tried to explain.

The half-giant patted Harry's shoulder heavily. "Yer a good lad, Harry, but you've no idea what your gettin' into. Those Malfoys are bad news; not a single witch or wizard in their family that hasn't been Sorted into Slytherin. Speakin' of, I must say, it was quite the surprise, hear'n you'd been sorted inta' Hufflepuff. Not that Hufflepuffs are _bad_ , not in the least - "

Harry shook his head and took the tray of tea over to Draco.

"Listen, lad," Hagrid sat nervously in his chair. He scratched his fingers beneath Fang's ears. "I'd like to 'pologize for what happened at Diagon." From inside his coat, Hagrid pulled out a large kerchief. He began to dab his eyes. "I knew shouldn't have drank so much! I've sworn off drinkin', I swear! I got in trouble with Dumbledore for leavin' you, and he got in trouble from the School Board - "

"Good!" Draco burst out. "Dumbledore shouldn't have sent you, anyways! You're lucky my dad was there to help Harry before someone _else_ got to him."

Harry was unamused. "I'm still here, you know."

Hagrid ignored him. "I'm not so sure your da was really _helping -_ "

Shaking his head, Harry picked up a piece of paper lying under the tea cozy. It was a cutting from the Daily Prophet:

 ** _GRINGOTTS BREAK-IN LATEST_**

 _Investigations continue into the break-in at Gringotts on 31 July, widely believed to be the work of Dark wizards or witches unknown. Gringotts goblins today insisted that nothing had been taken. The vault in question, number seven hundred and thirteen, had in fact been emptied the same day._

 _"But we're not telling you what was in there, so keep your noses out if you know what's good for you," said a Gringotts spokes-goblin this afternoon._

"What?" Harry murmured beneath his breath. "Hagrid, that Gringotts break-in happened on my birthday. In same vault you - "

There was no doubt about it, Hagrid was intentionally ignoring Harry this time. He grunted and offered him another rock cake. Harry met Draco's curious gaze and tucked the clipping into his front pocket.

When Harry and Draco walked back to the castle for dinner, Harry handed him the clipping. "He brought me to a vault that day," he said in a low tone. "He had a letter from Dumbledore, and told the goblins about the 'you-know-what in vault seven-hundred and thirteen'."

"You could be jumping to conclusions," Draco said reasonably. "Although Hagrid was acting awfully shifty about it. What was in the vault?" He imagined a great treasure trove, fabulous jewels and gems, or perhaps a hoarding of ancient books from Merlin's time -

Harry sighed. "A lumpy package, about the size of my palm."

A pale brow rose. "A lumpy package," he repeated slowly. "That sounds oddly familiar. Was it perhaps containing a _magical rock?"_

"I don't - " Harry said defensively.

"Don't _lie_ to me," Draco spun around to stick his finger in Harry's chest. "You _stole_ that thing from Hagrid, didn't you? An object that _Dark wizards unknown_ are breaking into a supposedly impenetrable bank to get?"

The dark-haired boy made a vague noise in his throat, gaze skittish.

"Oh Merlin," Draco threw his hands up, just realizing something. "You let me throw it through the air, chasing our broomsticks after it! A possibly priceless magical artifact!"

 ** _Finally, someone understands!_**

Harry sighed, preparing himself for a night of ranting and berations.

* * *

 _September 12th, 1991_

Draco was a bit excited for flying lessons. Actually, perhaps that was an understatement.

Harry, being in Hufflepuff, wasn't there to see his friend's performance. But, perhaps that was for the best. Apparently, Draco got in a fight with Ron Weasley resulting in a shattered Remembrall, a snapped broomstick and a wounded ego.

Hermione told him that it all started with Neville snapping his wrist. Neville had gotten a bit excited and pushed off before the whistle had touched Madam Hooch's lips. They had watched him rise higher and higher, Madam Hooch shouting at him to get down. Neville was pallid and fearful, hands trembling as he clutched the handle. At the twenty-foot marker, he looked down and promptly vomited over the side of his broom.

The Slytherins swiftly dodged the vomit, while Madam Hooch sighed in exasperation. "Get out a damn wand and force him down!" Draco had shouted to her. "You are a witch, aren't you?"

Neville plummeted to the ground with a rush of air, but instead of collapsing to the ground, Neville bounced and landed on his arse, inches away from Madam Hooch. He wailed in pain, curling in a fetal position. "Broken wrist," Hooch had tsked. "Could've been worse. Come on, boy, it's all right. Up you get."

As Hooch dragged him toward the Hospital Wing, Draco had began chattering mindlessly to Pansy and Blaise. "Did you see him bounce? And his face!"

"Shut up, Malfoy," Parvati Patil crossed her arms.

"Ooh, sticking up for Longbottom?" Pansy teased, smirking cruelly. "Never thought you'd like fat little crybabies, Parvati." All the Gryffindors scowled, and Ron surged forward.

"Why, you little _bi - "_

Hermione gasped at him. _"RONALD!"_

"Say, what's that?" Draco broke in, snatching something out of the grass. "This looks like a Remembrall, my father has one of these - "

"That's Neville's, give it here, Malfoy!" Ron shoved Hermione out of the way.

Draco smiled nastily at the redhead, tossing the glass orb between his hands. "I think I'll leave it somewhere for Longbottom to find," he mused, grabbing his broom. "How about . . . . up a tree?" Draco took off. Hovering just above Ron's head, Draco dangled his foot a foot from Ron's red hair. Ron jumped at him fruitlessly. "Come and get it, Weasley!" he taunted. Ron grabbed his broomstick instantly.

Hermione began shouting shrilly. "Stop it! You're going to get into trouble!" As predicted, it didn't end well.

On a better broom, Ron might've caught the Remembrall in time, but he was one second too slow. Glass shattered against the side of the castle, crimson smoking billowing into the redhead's face. Coughing wildly, Ron lost hold on his broom and plummeted to the ground.

 _"Ronald Weasley!"_ With a swish of her wand, Professor McGonagall managed to slow Ron's fall, but his broom was irreparable. As McGonagall was distracted, Draco set down carefully on the ground, grinning ear-to-ear. His smile soon faltered as Severus Snape came careening into the field, pale cheeks flushing with anger.

The Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw broom lessons were comparably hectic.

Flying was . . . utterly fantastic, in Harry's opinion. He could go on, waxing poetry about the thrill, the exhilaration, the pure _freedom;_ but he was a bit distracted by the floating golf balls serving as practice Snitches.

"The concept of flying without mechanical assistance is intriguing . . . but I do believe that falling should also be taken in consideration," Anthony Goldstein, a Ravenclaw, mused to himself, plaintively watching Hannah Abbott hover a few feet into the air.

"Stop being such a stickler, Goldstein," Susan shouted to him, her red hair fluttering behind her. With swift movements, she soared into a dive and looped around him.

"A bit too fast there, Bones," Madam Hooch chided her. "Else you'll end up face-first in the dirt."

"That's settled it. I am _not_ getting onto that death machine, and nothing you say or do will _make_ me." Anthony declared to Hooch, crossing his arms. Anthony, being a muggle-born, had never ridden a broom in his life. And he rather preferred to keep it that way, _thank you very much._

Zacharias and Ernie booed him, tossing around a golf ball. "Here, Tony - catch!"

"What - no!" With a heady _crunch,_ Anthony's nose burst with blood.

Madam Hooch winced, rushing over."Pinch your nose just there, lad. Who threw the ball?"

"T'anks Madam 'ooch," he said weakly. "It was 'mith."

She swung around, grey robes billowing. "Detention, Mister Smith! And get off that broom."

Zacharias threw his head back. "But Madam Hooch!"

" _Detention!_ Nine o'clock. Also, Mister Smith," she said reluctantly. "You may want to consider joining your House Quidditch team next year. That toss, while brutal, wasn't so terrible. I think you'd do well at Chasing - so long as you remember to aim for the _hoops!"_

Anthony was very affronted, as he had been a victim of Zacharias' aim. "He broke my nose and now he's being _rewarded?_ "

Madam Hooch sighed at the boy's histrionics. "I think, Goldstein, since you're so adamant against riding, you'd benefit from getting off the pitch. Perhaps Mister Smith could escort you to the Hospital Wing and explain to Madam Pomfrey why your nose is so," she gestured vaguely. "Peculiarly angled." The Ravenclaw squeaked, feeling his nose. It had began to swell in an angry shade of red.

"Honestly," Hooch shook her head, bringing her whistle to her lips. "Two trips to the Hospital Wing in one day!"

Her whistle blew.

* * *

That afternoon, Harry was enjoying a meal of chicken and mushroom pie when Draco plopped down next to him. The other Hufflepuffs stared at him, eyes wide.

"What're you doing here, Malfoy?" Gabriel Truman asked him sharply.

Draco slouched. "None of your business, Truman."

The prefect was doubtful. "So long as I don't see you causing any trouble," he waggled his fork dangerously.

"Yeah, yeah," Draco grumbled. "Give me some of those beans." He began to serve himself, uncaring of the venomous stares the muggleborns and older students gave him.

Harry finished his bite of food. "So," he said, patting his mouth. "You're not expelled?"

Draco speared his vegetables. "I might as well be. The other Slytherins have ostracized me." Craning his head to see the hourglasses filled with sparkling gems, keeping track of the amount of house points, Harry winced. Slytherin was down by quite a bit.

"Well, at least Snape didn't owl your mother."

"Oh, he did. I'll expect a strongly-worded letter in the morning, but the worst that'll happen is I'll have to pay for Neville's new Remembrall."

Zacharias looked up with a sneer. "You mean your _Daddy_ will pay for it." Harry was hit with the realization that the two were very much alike; different sides of the same coin, essentially.

Draco stared at the blonde. "Shut your goddamn mouth, Smith."

Just then, a lone owl fluttered in through the windows. A soft murmur swept through the Great Hall; owls usually arrived in the early morning, a flood of them dropping parcels and packages beside their breakfast plates. This owl was old and scraggly, it's feathers sticking up in several directions.

"Oh, Merlin," came a whisper from the Gryffindor table. "It's Errol."

The four Weasleys shared a fearful glance, seeing the red envelope clenched between it's claws. It dropped right into Ron Weasley's plate, shuddering violently and emitting red steam. "It's not us, for once," Fred Weasley said in amazement, smirking with his twin. "Go on, Ron. Best to get it over with quick."

The youngest ginger took a deep breath and pulled open the flap. His fingers were singed with the literal heat of the message. His mother had quite the lungs on her. Harry wasn't sure what was redder; Weasley's face or the Howler. Draco was fighting laughter, stuffing a fist in his mouth.

 _" . . . RECKLESS STUNT! . . . POOR LONGBOTTOM BOY . . . COMPENSATION FOR THE BROOMSTICK . . . REALLY, YOU OUGHT TO BE GRATEFUL IT WAS THE BROOM AND NOT YOUR_ SPINE _!"_ When the message ended and the Howler tore itself apart, the Hall burst into snickers and chatter.

The humiliation passed rather quickly, but Ron wasn't mollified. He was glaring at the Draco with a fair amount of menace, hands clenched tightly. He paused for a moment, considering, before stalking over with a determined gleam in his eyes. Hermione and a reluctant Neville trailed behind him concernedly.

"I'm going to murder you, Malfoy," Ron hissed, jabbing an errant finger in his face.

Draco looked infuriatingly unconcerned, and Ron's eye began to twitch. "I highly doubt that you're capable of that."

Ron glowered, practically shaking from anger. "I could take you anytime, Malfoy! Tonight. Wizard's duel. Wands only - no contact."

Draco thought about it, though not very long. "Accepted."

"You'll need a second."

The blonde stared around the Hufflepuff table for support. They were all suddenly avoiding his gaze, Zacharias smugly shaking his head. Draco drew himself up. "Harry's my second."

Harry made a noise of protest. "Must I?"

"You must," Draco insisted. "Who's yours?"

Ron looked to his entourage. "Hermione?" he asked hopefully.

The brunette's face hardened. "Not. Likely."

Sensing danger afoot, Ron quickly changed his mind. "Er, Neville's up to a chance at defending his honor. Right, mate?" Neville spluttered incoherently.

"Fine," Draco said, sounding bored. "Midnight all right? We'll meet you in the trophy room; that's always unlocked." The Gryffindors agreed and Harry stood from the bench momentarily to slap Draco upside the head.

"Hey!" Draco yelped.

Harry sat down with a grim expression. "If this doesn't get you expelled, I don't know what will."

"Merlin, calm down!" Draco snapped, rubbing his head. With a deep breath, he spread his fingers over the tabletop conspiratorially. "We're not _actually_ going. I was planning leaving Filch an 'anonymous tip' about curfew-breakers in the trophy room."

Zacharias stared at him. "That's not very fair," he protested.

"You forget," Draco smirked. "I'm a Slytherin. I don't _do_ fair." From the Gryffindor table, Ron showed Harry and Draco an obscene gesture, mouthing - _"This is war!_ "

"You're going," Harry said simply. "Or Weasley will tell everyone you're a coward." Draco threw his head back and groaned.

* * *

 _That Night_

"Shall we just pick one and hope for the best?" Draco asked, looking at the tens of moving staircases.

Harry yawned deeply, leaning against a pillar as Draco made halted movements up the steps. "I thought you knew where the trophy room was?" he asked idly, rubbing at his eyebrows. Draco had picked him up a few minutes earlier at the Hufflepuff commons; the Slytherin had attempted to break into the commons twice before Harry appeared, just barely catching him from being doused with vinegar.

"I _do,_ but the staircases just keep - " He stiffened as they heard a crash and distant shouts. "What the absolute hell?" Draco hissed, twisting to look downwards.

Careening through the Charms corridor was a floating apparition, bellowing out for Filch and Mrs. Norris. "STUDENTS OUT OF BED!" Peeves the Poltergeist screamed, it's transparent robes swirling around. "STUDENTS OUT OF BED, DOWN THE CHARMS CORRIDOR!" Harry and Draco ducked as a group of three rushed up a staircase. One had bright orange hair, the other with bushy brown and another with pale umber.

"The Gryffindorks!" Draco exclaimed. "They brought the mudblood?"

 _"Be quiet!"_

With quick footsteps, Draco darted after the Gryffindors. "I'm gonna follow them!"

Harry blanched, clenching the banister. "Wait, _what?"_

"You can stay here," Draco said in a harsh whisper. "But I'm _not_ getting caught by Filch." The green-eyed boy threw his hands up and followed soon after.

Harry crept slowly up the stairs, keeping an eye out for both Filch's annoying cat and the caretaker, himself. "Faster," Draco tugged him upwards, pointing at a door. It was ajar slightly - from within they could hear the Gryffindors bickering loudly.

"Move over," Draco pulled open the door, sidling into the tight space. Hermione, dressed in a thread-bare pink robe, widened her eyes in surprise. Neville squeaked as Draco stepped on his foot.

"What are you doing here, Malfoy?" Ron hissed, shutting the door behind them. "We thought you'd tricked us!" His face was pink in the dim, flickering torch light. "You didn't come to the trophy room."

Harry shrugged. "I talked him into coming, but we got lost. _You_ guys are the one that have Filch on a wild spree!"

"Hush!" Hermione said, bringing a finger to her lips. Her eyes were trained on the door. "He's talking with Peeves . . . they think this door is locked. I think we'll be alright – what is it, Neville?" she swung around in irritation. Neville had begun tugging on the sleeve of Hermione's robe for the last minute.

Harry's green eyes were huge, filled with horror. "G - good dog."

They were looking straight into the eyes of a monstrous animal, a dog with three, horrible heads. Saliva was hanging in slippery ropes from yellowish fangs. It began to growl beneath it's breath. The children groped for the doorknob – between Filch and death, they'd take Filch.

"Go, _go!"_

Harry and Draco split ways from the Gryffindors, adrenaline still rushing through them.

The two rushed into the basement, Draco stammering the whole way. "A Cerberus, in the castle!" he said breathlessly, holding the stitch in his side. "He almost mauled us, the ugly creature. When my father hears about this - "

"When he hears you were out of bed and in a forbidden floor?" Harry asked, too exhausted to be sarcastic. "Forget the Cerberus, did you see what was underneath it?"

"The floor?" Draco threw his hands in the air. "I wasn't looking at its feet, Harry, I was too busy with it's three _bloody_ heads and giant teeth."

His head shook. "There was a trapdoor under it's feet! I bet you my entire fortune that it's guarding something. Though why they'd keep it in a school full of children is beyond me."

 _"Or,_ maybe - just maybe. Our headmaster is a _lunatic!"_

* * *

 ** _* 'Draped in the flag'_**

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

If someone 'drapes themselves in the flag', they are pretending to be doing something for patriotic reasons or out of loyalty, but their real motives are, in fact, selfish.

REASONINGS:

I'm quite fond of Hagrid's little pet projects. Having the forbidden third-floor corridor still involved helps push along the plot, even if it isn't in place to protect the Philosopher's Stone. Dumbledore is very well aware that his Stone is missing, but Voldemort doesn't know that.

Dumbledore will still attempt to trap the Dark Lord, and have a good laugh of it too, as the Dark Lord is essentially on a wild goose chase. 'Two birds with one stone'. Get it?


	10. No Rest

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Ten:**

 **No Rest**

 _Midnight has come, it is all Souls' Night_ ** _an_** _d a ghost may come; For_ ** _i_** _t is a ghost's right, His element is so fine, being sharpene_ ** _d_** _by his death, to drink from the wine-breath whi_ ** _le_** _our gross palates drink fro_ ** _m_** _the whole w_ ** _in_** _e. On the soul's journey, how it is whirle_ ** _d_** _about, wherever the orbit of the moon can reach, until it plunge into the sun;_ _And there, free and yet fast, being both Chance and Choice, forget its broken toys and sink into its own delight at last._ **_*_**

\- William Butler Yeats, _All Souls' Night_

* * *

 _October 31st, 1991_

On Halloween morning, they woke to the delicious smell of baking pumpkin wafting through the corridors. The students chattered with uncharacteristic mirth as Flitwick bounced objects across the classroom. Hermione, once more, was the first to succeed with the charm. Harry had been partnered with the prodigy, who playfully tickled him with her feather. "Stop that," he laughed, knocking it out of the way.

Wayne and Ernie were doing surprising well, whereas Zacharias somehow managed to set his feather on fire. "I don't think your brows can take any more singeing, Zacharias," Hermione said truthfully, leaning over to correct the boy's wand grip.

Zacharias scowled, but it lacked it's usual contempt. It seemed the holiday had put everyone in a good mood.

Flitwick quickly threw up a shield as Hannah's feather exploded. The fair-skinned girl coughed, ash littering her long hair.

"Guess that really . . . blew up in your face," Wayne joked. Harry groaned.

Ron was struggling with his feather, breathing heavily through his nostrils. _"Wingardium Leviosa!"_ he chanted, waving his long arms like a windmill. The edges of his feather fluttered slightly but did not comply.

"You're saying it wrong," Hermione sighed, trying to help. "It's _Wingar-dium Levi-o-sa,_ make the _"gar"_ nice and long."

Ron's face went red at her advice. "Stay out of my business!" he snapped, shoving her away. "It's a wonder anyone can stand you, you're a nightmare, honestly!"

Hermione's face went red.

The class bell rang and Harry tried to comfort her. She shoved him away, grabbing her class books. Feeling steadily irked, Harry made a point of charming the Ron's book bag to float precariously up to the ceiling. "Hey!" Ron shouted, jumping to grab it.

"Great going, Weasley," Zacharias spat at the redhead.

Ron scowled defensively. "She annoys you too!"

"Yeah, but you don't _tell it to her face!"_

By the time Harry pushed past them and rushed into the hall, Hermione was gone.

Harry rubbed between his eyes, sighing.

Wayne soon caught up with him, tugging him toward the Great Hall. "I'm _starving,"_ Wayne whined, his stomach rumbling. The Hall was enchanted with holiday-appropriate decorations, the tables vibrating with cacophonous music. The moment Wayne sat, he scooped up a plate of treats, mouth watering. "This is brilliant," he moaned around a mouthful of candied ham.

The other first years nodded in agreement, tongues nearly wagging as they took a helping of pumpkin pie. Justin licked the sugar off his fingers, making a horrific lip-smacking sound. "Too bad Hermione isn't here," he said idly. "Though I suppose with her parents being dentists, they'd be a bit disapproving."

"Hey, didn't your parents die tonight?" Zacharias asked abruptly, looking at Harry.

The boy blinked. "I - I don't actually know," he leaned back, the meal suddenly unappetizing. "Is it?"

Susan nudged Zacharias, disapproving of his frankness.

"It is," she said gently, laying a hand on Harry's. "Are you feeling well?"

Harry's stomach roiled. "No - I - " he swallowed. "I actually feel rather ill."

Everyone exchanged looks. "Poor Harry," Susan muttered, pushing away her plate. "We shouldn't be celebrating! We should hold a memorial, or something - "

They all turned their heads as Professor Quirrell came sprinting into the Hall, his turban askew and terror plain on his face. "TROLL! TROLL!" The Defense professor fell to his knees about halfway to the Head Table, eyes glazed as he looked upwards the - for once - subdued blue eyes of the Headmaster. "Troll, in the dungeons . . ." the professor murmured, tipping sideways. "Thought you ought to know."

Hermione splashed her face, staring in the bathroom mirror.

Her eyes were sore and bloodshot, a reminder of her breakdown. She clenched the edge of the sink fiercely, trying to resist breaking down in tears again. Gradually, a foul stench reached her nostrils.

Muffled thumps could be heard outside the chambers. A hand flew up to cover her nose as a great green skull ducked through the bathroom door, the troll's nostrils flaring. Hermione pressed herself back into a wall, slowly reaching for her wand. The troll dragged it's long club across the tile, his shoulders hunched as he sniffed for fresh meat. "Please be a dream," she whispered, fingers tightening around her wand. _"Please."_

The troll stopped slowly, and turned it's ugly head in Hermione's direction.

The creature's dark eyes glowed in the darkness, a guttural growl rising in it's throat. She heard a gasp from outside the chambers, and Hermione ducked just in time as the troll swung it's club. "Get down!" Came a panicked voice.

Percy Weasley flicked his wand fiercely, and the club slid out of the dazed beast's grip, banging against the floor before rising. In that fraction of a second, in which the troll stared down it's own weapon, he knew -even in his limited capacity for intelligible thought- that he was dead meat.

The club collided with the creature's skull, making a sickening crack. Eyes bulging before rolling back, the troll collapsed to the floor, knocking Hermione into a small puddle of water. Gagging at the blood seeping from a visible dent in it's thick skull, Hermione looked up at the pale-faced prefect.

Percy pulled himself up, eyes flicking between the troll and the first-year. "Are - are you injured, Miss Granger?"

She shook her head, curling in on herself. "Is it dead?"

"I think," Percy swallowed. "I - I think not. Just knocked out."

"How'd you know I was here?" Hermione asked weakly.

"Ron told me you were missing, and McGonagall was in the dungeons so I - I took the prerogative. I swear, I didn't know the troll would be here. It was supposed to be in the dungeons!"

"Why is there a troll in the school anyways?" she asked, standing on shaky legs.

Before he could respond, Professor McGonagall had come bursting into the room.

"Mr. Weasley!" she said in astonishment. "Miss Granger!" Hermione had never seen her look so angry. Her lips were white and pressed. "What on earth were you thinking of?" said Professor McGonagall, with cold fury in her voice. Hermione looked at Percy, who was still standing with his wand in the air.

Bolstering himself, Percy slipped away his wand and stepped forward. "Professor, it was a complete happenstance. Hermione had been absent at dinner and was unaware of the troll's, erm, existence. My younger brother, Ronald, noticed her absence and notified me. Thinking that you were detained in the dungeons, I thought I could fetch her quickly; but the troll found her first."

McGonagall fixed her gaze onto the troll, lying prone on the tile. "Are you injured, Miss. Granger?" she asked, lips pressed.

Hermione shook her head weakly. "No ma'am. P - Percy knocked out the troll before it could attack."

"Well - in that case . . . " she floundered. "I still say you were lucky! Not many full-grown wizards could have taken on a full-grown mountain troll, Mr. Weasley. You win Gryffindor five points. You did well with your duties, however a professor _still_ should have been informed. Professor Dumbledore made it quite clear that no students should be in the corridors. The headmaster _will_ be informed of this. You may go."

The two hurried out of the chamber and didn't speak until they had climbed two floors up. It was a relief to be away from the smell of the troll, quite apart from anything else. Hermione glanced shyly up at the prefect, who seemed flustered at McGonagall's proclamation. "Thank you, Percy," she brushed her fingers against his robe sleeve. "That was very brave of you."

Percy puffed his chest out, cheeks reddening to match his hair. "All in a day's work, Miss. Granger," he said pompously, before relaxing his posture. "It - it was very scary, wasn't it?" he admitted. "But I didn't really think about it. I just did."

"I daresay you saved my life." Hermione tilted her head. "I wonder if the headmaster will give you an award for special services to the school. _Hogwarts, A History_ claims there hasn't been an award given since the 1940s, when another Prefect caught a rogue beast that was said to kill a girl. The circumstances are very similar, no?"

Percy's eyes widened with excitement. "Do you think so? I mean - I'm glad you weren't killed." They had reached the portrait of the Fat Lady. _"Pig snout,"_ Percy graciously escorted her into the commons.

Everyone was eating the food that had been sent up. There was a very embarrassed pause as the other students glanced up. Ron, flushed with relief, came up to Hermione with a plate. Avoiding her gaze, he thrusted it into her hands. "Sorry," he murmured, before hurrying off.

Hermione glanced up at Percy, the prefect darkly amused. "Is he always so eloquent?"

Percy snickered, before slamming his mouth shut, blushing. He awkwardly patted her shoulder and went to join the other prefects. Hermione sighed, plopping down beside Lavender Brown. She picked at her meal, trying to get the vision of dark blood and green skin out of her head.

At that moment, she glanced up and met the sharp brown eyes of the young prefect. Together, they smiled. There are some things you can't share without ending up liking each other, and knocking out a twelve-foot mountain troll is one of them.

* * *

Large pillars cast shadows across the hall. Cobwebs cascaded down from the ceiling, clutching onto a towering stone golem creature. Torchlight flickered weakly, the stone cressets etched with the Hogwarts insignia.

Soft growls could be heard in the far-most door.

Suddenly, Snape came striding into the corridor, wand a lit as he made to unlock the door. The dour professor opened the door with a sinister whine. Severus could sense a dark, virulent magic in the air, and kept his feet planted firmly on the floor, heart pounding in his chest. He eyed the shadows around him, feeling an unnatural presence.

Not a minute later came a tell-tale growl and an enraged yell.

Severus' rapid spell-casting and guttural barks filled the empty corridor. There was a slamming, rattling sound, and a few lengthy swears before Snape limped into the hall. His pale face was flushed with heat, his robes disheveled. Blood cascaded down his leg, a long tear in his black pants.

Snape took a minute to breathe, leaning heavily against the wall. He glanced down at his injury with a grimace, and conjured a stark white bandage. The mere effort of bending over to expertly wrap the wound seemed to exert him.

A glowing, eldritch tabby came prowling into the room - a corporeal Patronus. The cat came up to Snape and blinked it's silver eyes. _"The troll has been found in the first-floor bathroom,"_ the Patronus voiced, the Scottish lull of McGonagall strained. _"Heads of Houses, please alert the students to remain in their dorms. Any students found in the halls should be brought to my office for questioning. All staff, report to the Headmaster's office after curfew."_ The cat dispelled away without a sound, leaving an eerie blue glow on the floor.

Snape heaved an exhausted sigh, clambering to his feet. He limped out of the hall, his robes lacking their usual billow.

As soon as he left, Quirrell suddenly appeared, the man's Disillusionment Charm fading away. The wizard stood tall, head held high - a far cry from the simpering fool of a Defense teacher that he behaved as. The purple turban caused his head to look bulged in the dim lighting.

Quirrell swore darkly, pacing back and forth. "A hellhound, my Lord. The half giant's work, most certainly."

There was a soft hiss, imbued with the increments of Parseltongue. "That insipid fool thinks he can protect the Stone with a pup and a series of traps?" A high, unnaturally cold voice mocked. "Flamel is naive to trust the old coot with his precious entity. They have both gone insane with age." Quirrell nodded vehemently in agreement.

There was a pause.

"Don't you have somewhere to be?" The voice spat. "You are the expert on trolls, are you not?" Quirrell squeaked and turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.

The corridor was silent. Even the Cerberus was mute; and that was never good.

When hell-hounds cowered in fear, you knew; something wicked was afoot.

* * *

 _November 9th, 1991_

Before Harry knew it, the first Quidditch match of the year was upon them.

The entire school, from the Ravenclaw Towers to the Hufflepuff Basement, were buzzing with excitement - betting, theorizing and daydreaming of what potential entertainment could occur in the forthcoming battle between Gryffindor and Slytherin. Rivals in all competitions and conquests, there hadn't been a fair match between the two houses in decades. This competition spurned the Hogwarts student body into attending these matches with great joy and anticipation.

Harry sat comfortably beside Draco and Wayne, eyes roaming the grassy pitch in search of his muggle-born friend. Somehow, herd mentality had even drawn Percy Weasley and Hermione to the field. They sat in Gryffindor stands and were promptly lost to the world as they began to debate the _'possible negative effects of giving rowdy teenagers a broomstick and a bat'._

Madam Hooch, her voice magically enhanced, let out a shout. "Now, I want a nice, fair game, all of you."

"Like _that's_ going to happen," Draco snorted next to Harry, bouncing on his seat in a rare show of boyish enjoyment.

The weather was chilled, a frisk breeze brushing back Harry's dark hair. He was wearing Hufflepuff colors, the grey and yellow drawing out the bright gleam to his eyes. As he tugged his hat over his ears, the dozen players rose up, high into the air at Hooch's whistle. They meandered above the stands and Harry craned his neck to catch sight of the visibly shaking and faintly green-looking Gryffindor Seeker. The Quaffle was tossed up into the pitch, the Bludgers and Snitch were released . . . and they were off.

"And the Quaffle is taken immediately by Angelina Johnson of Gryffindor — what an excellent Chaser that girl is, and rather attractive, too - "

"Jordan!" Professor McGonagall admonished. Draco and the other Slytherins protested Lee Jordan's blatant favoritism.

Off and across the pitch, red and green blurs trekked, tossing back and forth a large brown blob, while the two Bludgers whipped past their heads. The Slytherin Beaters were good. They knocked the Bludger towards any Gryffindor player in their way, having no regard for fair play. Angelina Johnson was smacked in her side and right elbow twice in the first few minutes, while Katie Bell was nearly startled off her broom. Miles Bletchley was Keeper. While he usually wore a sour expression, when he missed the next dive, he looked completely murderous.

"Gryffindor scores!" Jordan cheered, earning moans and frustrated shouts from the Slytherin side.

Theodore Nott whipped around his scarf like a lasso, showing more enthusiasm than Draco had ever seen. Crabbe and Goyle guffawed at every missed play - Gryffindor or not. Harry let his eyes wander over to the Gryffindor stands.

His gaze immediately fell on Hermione, looking uncomfortable and out of place in the rowdy crowd. It was clear Hermione was not there to support the team, and Harry could see a vague outline of a book in her robes pocket.

"Slytherin in possession," Lee Jordan was saying, "Chaser Pucey ducks two Bludgers, two Weasleys, and Chaser Bell, and speeds toward the - wait a moment - was that the Snitch?" Harry snapped to attention as a flit of gold streaked past the stands. Terence Higgs caught sight of the Snitch first, the Gryffindor Seeker following close behind.

Draco was screaming encouragements to the second-year Slytherin, and Harry was on the very edge of his seat.

Just as Terrence's broom pulled ahead, there was an enormous crash. Marcus Flint blocked the Gryffindor Seeker's course, sending the boy spiraling painfully towards the grass. A roar of fury erupted from the Gryffindor stands.

"So, after that obvious and disgusting bit of cheating - " Lee was concluding.

"Jordan!" McGonagall growled from the commentary stand.

"I mean, after that open and revolting foul . . . "

"Jordan, I'm warning you," she waggled her finger.

Lee raised his hands. "All right, all right. Flint nearly kills the Gryffindor Seeker, which could happen to _anyone_ , I'm sure, so a penalty to Gryffindor. It's taken by Spinner, who puts it away, no trouble, and we continue play. Gryffindor still in possession."

The Gryffindors seemed to be proving a point; they were even more boisterous than before, outright screaming as Slytherin came into the lead. Harry searched through the stands once more, waving a small hand at Neville as he cheered on the lions.

When Terence finally caught the Snitch, Harry laughed at the Slytherin's joyous screams. They were ecstatic from the 160-70 point win. Draco's grey eyes were wild, cheeks flushed with color as he jumped to his feet. Blaise smacked a wet kiss onto Daphne's flushed cheek, while Crabbe and Goyle gave the uncomfortable Theo a bone-crushing hug.

Soon, Harry, was being made a cup of strong tea back in Hagrid's hut, along with a highly reluctant Draco and Hermione. Harry leaped at the chance to join Hagrid, remembering the newspaper clipping.

"This is Hermione," Harry introduced to Hagrid. Hermione gave a polite wave.

"Excellent game," Hermione said awkwardly.

"It'd be more excellent if we were out celebrating with everyone else," Draco grumbled.

"Quiet," Harry hushed. "Hagrid? What do you know about the three-headed dog in the third-floor corridor?"

Hagrid dropped the teapot. Draco threw his hands up. "Real subtle, Harry."

"How - " he tried to pick up the shards, nearly cutting himself. Draco waved away the debris with a flick of his wand. "How do you know about Fluffy?"

"Fluffy?" Hermione questioned. "He's yours?"

"Yeah, he's mine. I bought him off a Greek chappie I met in the pub las' year - I lent him to Dumbledore to guard the . . . well, it don't matter. It's lost, anyways."

Harry plastered on a smile. "Hagrid. Is it that package you got from the vault you lost?"

"What vault?" Hermione asked.

"You know that vault at Gringotts that was broken into?" Draco chimed in, leaning forward excitedly. "Earlier that same day, Hagrid removed a package from it." He glanced at Harry. "And then he _lost_ whatever was inside it."

Hagrid looked harried. "Stop _tellin'_ e'ryone this stuff. It's top secret, it is."

"It's just Draco and Hermione, and they're trustworthy," Harry plied. "Come on, _tell_ us."

The interrogation flustering him, Hagrid slammed down his tea cup. "Now, listen to me! Yer meddlin' in things that don' concern yeh. It's dangerous. You forget that dog, an' you forget the vault, Harry. What was in it is between Professor Dumbledore an' Nicolas Flamel - "

 ** _The Philosopher's Stone!_** Harry's inner friend broke out, glee strumming from his scar to his toes. **_That's what it was._**

Harry shared a look with his friends, giving a slow smile. "Nicolas Flamel, huh?"

Hagrid looked furious with himself.

* * *

 _Late December, 1991_

Christmas was coming.

One morning in mid-December, Hogwarts woke to find itself covered in several feet of snow. The lake froze solid and the Weasley twins were punished for bewitching several snowballs so that they followed Quirrell around, bouncing off the back of his turban.

Due to the basements being only a few degrees above freezing, on the day of the first snow, a note could be found beside each Hufflepuff's pillow, describing in avid detail the strongest, longest lasting warming spell their Head of House could recall. Harry had utilized it immediately, his ever-present chills and puffs of steamy breath abating as he hurried up to the Great Hall to meet Hermione and Draco.

His own trunk packed and rolling behind him, Harry and the others rattled their way down into Hogsmeade where they would be boarding the Hogwarts Express. Hermione had with her a pile of books, weighing down her bag until Draco reluctantly taught her a light-weight charm. She was still reading, trying to find any mention of Nicolas Flamel and his stone.

But the Hogwarts library had been suspiciously absent of them. All they'd found in the past few weeks was a small excerpt in _Hogwarts, A History._ It had read: _'The ancient study of alchemy is concerned with making the Sorcerer's Stone, a legendary substance with astonishing powers. This stone will transform any metal into pure gold. It also produces the Elixir of Life, which will make the drinker immortal.'_

As they boarded the train, Hermione rifled through her bag, handing Draco a small book on magical artifacts. "You know what to do," she said idly.

Draco gave out a loud groan. "Can't we do this over the holiday? We've access to a rather large library. I'm sure we'll find something."

Hermione pursed her lips. "Well, if you want to waste your vacation, so be it! But _I'm_ going to get all the reading in that I can."

"Then do so," Draco flapped a tired hand. "But do it elsewhere."

The Gryffindor huffed angrily and grabbed her bag, grumbling beneath her breath. "Owl me, then, Harry, if you find anything," she said, slamming the door.

"She's only trying to help," Harry said to the blonde. "You could try to be a bit kinder."

Draco arched a brow. "If you really wanted her help, you'd tell her that you _have_ the damn stone."

Harry pressed a self-conscious hand to his outer pocket. "She's a Gryffindor. Her morals are a bit more steadfast than mine." Harry said meekly.

"Yeah, but you're a Hufflepuff," Draco pointed out. "And that certainly hasn't stopped you from being _deviant._ I still don't know how you ended up there; you're a Slytherin at heart."

Harry sighed, leaning back into his seat. He took the stolen stone from his pocket, watching the light flicker off the red and orange glass. "Sometimes, I wonder the same.

* * *

 ** _* 'An idle mind_** _is the devil's playground,' -_ Philippians 4:8

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

In the next few chapters, there will be no rest for the wicked nor the weary; both of which, Harry is.

The 'idle mind' comment is in reference to Harry's recent, calmer attitude. He's been so distracted by school that he's nearly forgotten the turmoil that's going on in his own mind, not to mention the lurking darkness around him.

Theme of Poem: Chance


	11. A Snowball's Chance

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Eleven:**

 **A Snowball's Chance**

 _ **T**_ _ake of Englis_ _ **h**_ _flowe_ _ **r**_ _s th_ _ **e**_ _s_ _ **e**_ _\- Spring's full-vaced primroses, Summer's wild wide-hearted rose, Autumn's wall-flower of the_ _ **c**_ _lose,_ _ **an**_ _d, thy dar_ _ **k**_ _n_ _ **e**_ _ss to illum_ _ **e**_ _, Winter's bee-thronged ivy-bloom. Seek and serve them where they bide, from Candlemas to Christmas-tide, For these sim_ _ **p**_ _les, used_ _ **a**_ _right, can re_ _ **s**_ _tor_ _ **e**_ _a failing sight. These shall_ _ **c**_ _leanse and pu_ _ **r**_ _ify w_ _ **e**_ _bbed and inward-_ _ **t**_ _urning eye; These shall show thee treasure hid, Thy familiar fields amid; And reveal (which is thy need) Every man a King indeed!_ *****

 _-_ Rudyard Kipling, _A Charm_

* * *

 _December 24th, 1991_

Yuletide in Malfoy Manor came quickly.

Christmas eve dawned, cold and white. The glass windows that looked out into the snow-cover grounds were crystallized in intricate patterns. A few hours before bed, Harry and Draco had been generously invited into Lucius' warm office, decorated with a fair amount of Christmas decorations. The air smelt of spruce and ginger, and faint threads of silvery tinsel could be spotted lining the door frame.

"It was that damn house elf," Lucius muttered behind a glass of eggnog. "I woke to hear that little urchin humming _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ beneath his breath and bewitching my furniture red and gold."

"Not _Gryffindor_ colors?" Narcissa said in mock horror.

"Indeed. I scared him off, naturally, and I managed to disenchant the worst of the decor. Dobby even set up a _tree_ \- it was nearly ten feet tall before I burned it; ornaments, cranberry garlands, fairy lights and all." The man smiled grimly. "At least I won't need to go shopping for crystallized fairy wings anymore."

Draco looked horrified. "You _killed_ the Christmas tree fairies? How could you? They're _tradition!_ "

"They taste delicious mixed with eggnog," Lucius said innocently. "A bit sugary."

His son gagged, and pushed away his cup. Narcissa gave out soft peals of laughter and plopped into Lucius', placing her head onto Lucius' collarbone. The man was an adamant nihilist, though he respected the Yule Tide's magical significance and Narcissa's desire for _family time._ The grandfather clock chimed, but instead of the usual resounding gongs, releasing the chipper tune for _Jingle Bells._

Lucius groaned loudly. "Time for bed, then!" Narcissa laughed, shooing them away. "You don't want to witness Ebeneezer Scrooge roar his ugly head, do you?"

" _Excuse_ me? Did you just equate me to that ridiculous muggle - " The door shut behind them. Draco dragged his bleary-eyed friend over to his bed in the Runspoor Wing. Ignoring Harry's protests, Draco pushed him onto the bed. "Sleep here tonight."

"I - well, if you say so," Harry hesitantly crawled beneath the sheets, and watched through lidded eyes as Draco moved in next to him.

"We do this every year," Draco explained, tucking the sheets up to his chin. "Mother convinces the house elves to make a big deal about Christmas and father acts all grouchy, and then they go off to - well, do what parents do, you know." Draco yawned, nestling his head into the pillow. "And in the morning, all my presents are on the foot of the bed. Most of them are left unlabelled, but I know they're from father," he droned on, his silk-like voice slowly lulling Jameson into a lethargic stupor.

"Mother usually gets me designer robes or the like, while father gets me books - never fiction. Usually something about the Dark Arts, but sometimes he slips in something about dragons or potions that I actually _enjoy_ ," Draco stared into the distance, forearm tucked beneath his head.

"I'm happy to see them. I didn't think I'd miss my parents so much, but I do. A lot of people think them stoic and cold, but at home - as I'm sure you've noticed - they're different. They _care._ They listen to me even when I'm whinging or rambling, they hold me when I bang my knee playing Quidditch, they wipe my tears when I get overwhelmed - " Draco cut off suddenly, turning to face the (barely) awake Hufflepuff. "Sorry," he cleared his throat. "I forgot."

Harry's green eyes peeked out from beneath long lashes. There was a long moment of silence, and Draco thought Harry had fallen asleep, before the brunette responded softly.

"It's alright," he said finally. "I had relatives, once, a long time ago. They were like that, but not with me. They had a son they doted on, they spoiled him rotten. But it always seemed as though I wasn't _good_ enough for them. I did all their chores, cooked their meals and allowed myself to be treated like dirt. Eventually, I learned there was no pleasing them. But - it still hurt." he broke off, briefly clenching his eyes shut. "To think I was unlovable."

Draco's brow crinkled at the uncharacteristically bitter lilt to his friends voice.

"How did they die, Harry?" he asked quietly. Harry blinked up at him. "Father told me you lived in an orphanage until Hagrid picked you up."

The green-eyed boy let out a long, shaky breath. "There was a fire," he said, voice nearly imperceptible. "That I started. They hurt me, so I - "

"Hurt them," Draco finished, expression unreadable. "Good. They deserved it."

Harry didn't respond.

"I'll - I'll just wake you in the morning, for presents, then, alright?" Harry mumbled something, moving his head. Draco peered down at him. "What was that?"

"M' getting presents?" Harry asked again, and Draco frowned at the question.

"Of course you are, Harry," the blonde chided lightly. "What gave you that silly idea? It's Christmas, and you're spending it with the Malfoys! We're not like those Muggle idiots. We wouldn't deprive you of anything!"

Harrysmiled, then, and Draco's breath caught at the sweetness of it. "Thank you," Harry said genuinely. "I've-" he yawned widely. "I've never had a real Christmas before . . . " he trailed off.

* * *

 _December 25th, 1991_

As the scent of bacon and crepes wafted from down the stairs, Harry blinked awake, tugging his blanket closer.

The fluttering of wings roused him further. A light chirp came from the large bay window and Harry jerked in surprise. He lifted his head to catch sight of an owl perched on the sill. "Draco?" he asked, looking at it's beak-full of cards and claw-full of parcels.

"Ugn," Draco flapped a hand, tugging the blankets over his head.

Harry sighed. Hopping from foot to foot over the cold floor, Harry shoved the window open. The bird cascaded gracefully over to his bed-frame. Harry caressed the bird's sleek skull. "A merry Christmas to you too, lovely." The bird chirruped again, dropping it's parcels and fluttering out the window.

The wizard arched a brow. He ignored the chill, tying on his robe as he stared at the small pile of wrapped gifts at the end of his bed. He reached toward the first parcel, which was wrapped in thick brown paper. Written in a jerky scrawl were the words _'To Harry, from Hagrid'._

Harry unwrapped it carefully. Inside was a roughly cut wooden flute, obviously whittled by the half-giant himself. Smiling fondly, Harry lifted it to his lips - it let out a strange call, often heard up in the Owlery.

Harry was immensely glad that he'd the foresight to send the Groundskeeper a present of his own. It hadn't been anything fancy, merely a stiffened parchment with the image of Fang, pouncing across a field systematically. Harry had asked an upperclassman to charm it, making the hound bark the tune to various holiday songs.

The boy took his time opening his presents. His first gift was _The Rise and Fall of the Dark Arts,_ from Hermione, who had several chapters bookmarked for him. There was a whole section on the Dark Lord and his downfall, including a black and white, moving picture of Harry's parents. He wondered if the picture would still move if he ripped the page out to keep under his pillow.

The next largest gift was from Wayne. He'd provided a box of slightly-rare potion ingredients. The note attached said:

 _'Maybe that greasy bat won't hate you as much if you practice brewing on your off time. Anytime Malfoy or Zacharias needs to get knocked down a peg, remember; Flobberworm Mucus is notoriously hard to get out of hair.'_

Harry laughed at that.

The other gifts were from Wayne and the other 'puffs; poorly-wrapped Chocolate Frogs and strange candies he'd never tried. Thankful for the presents he'd handed out before holiday began, Harry deposited the new treasures into his trunk, a deep warmth within him fighting the household's chill.

As he debated sneaking a bit of chocolate before breakfast, Harry jerked as a crimson-wrapped parcel suddenly popped onto his bed covers, a large eared house-elf bowing slightly before disappearing.

Letting out a calming breath, Harry shuffled on his knees to grasp the package. He unwrapped it carefully, eyes widening as he felt the soft, silvery gray material. It lay gleaming on the floor, a small note tucked beneath one of the thin folds. Written in narrow, loopy writing were the following words:

 _'Your father left this in my possession before he died._ _It is time it was returned to you._ _Use it well. A Very Merry Christmas to you.'_

There was no signature.

Harry stood, lifting the cloak so that it brushed the tops of his toes. Recognizing the design and color, he gaped in amazement. **_Well. Looks like you needn't have bartered with that hag after all,_** the voice said idly. Harry laughed, wrapping the Invisibility Cloak around him.

"Draco will be _so_ jealous," Harry turned toward the vanity mirror, seeing naught but a floating head bobbing midair.

It's quality must be high for Harry's father to have owned it. According to _Fantastic Beasts_ , most Invisibility Cloaks didn't last long due to the temperament of Demiguise hair, which eventually turned opaque and lost it's invisibility effects as time passed.

Thinking of his own father, Harry felt very strange wearing a dead man's cloak. He removed it quickly, deciding he'd test it later. Harry began cleaning up the wrappings, bright gaze eventually drifting to his still-asleep friend and the vial of Flobberworm Mucus that Wayne had kindly passed along.

A smirk played on his lips.

* * *

 _January thru Late February, 1992_

January arrived and the afternoon before classes began was spent lazing in front of the fire. The Hufflepuffs chatted idly among themselves, passing around a tin of home-made cookies.

As homework stacked up and textbooks were opened to the next chapter, the holiday spirit faded in favor of academics and athletics. Talk of the next Quidditch game soon filled the castle, and on the day of Hufflepuff versus Gryffindor, students stumbled down into the field, donned in yellows and reds.

The lions' win in the match between Hufflepuff and Gryffindor was to be expected. The Hufflepuff Seeker had gotten the stomach flu and the reserve was simply pitiful on a broom. Gryffindor caught the Snitch in twenty minutes, winning the game by a fair margin, thus placing them in second place for the House Cup.

The Hufflepuffs were devastated by the loss. Harry lingered behind the crowd, casually crossing the school grounds when he saw a dark-cloaked figure disappear into the Forbidden forest. Harry, who had taken to bringing his Invisibility Cloak _everywhere,_ slipped it over his head and followed.

"I d-don't know why you wanted t-t-to meet here of all p-places, Severus," Quirrell's stammering voice sounded out among the crickets and rustling of trees.

"Oh, I thought we'd keep this private," Snape said, his voice icy. "Students aren't supposed to know about the Stone, after all." Harry leaned forward. Quirrell was mumbling something but Snape interrupted him. "Have you found out how to get past that beast of Hagrid's yet?"

"Well - no, but Severus, I -"

"You don't want me as your _enemy_ , Quirrell," Snape took a menacing step toward him.

"I - I don't know what you - "

"You know perfectly _well_ what I mean." Quirrell stammered out a few vague statements. "Very well," Snape cut in, pinching between his eyes in clear annoyance. "We'll have another little chat soon, when you've had time to think things over and decided where your loyalties lie." He threw his cloak over his head and strode out of the clearing.

It was almost dark now, but Harry could see Quirrell, standing quite still. Pensive, Harry lingered behind long enough to see a furious expression cross Quirrell's face before the man disappeared into the shadows.

Odd. Very odd.

* * *

It hadn't been long after the match that Hermione dragged Harry to the library, shoving a potions book in his hands. "Exams are coming up soon!" she said breezily. From her bag, she pulled out study schedules and color-coded notes, splaying them across the table top. Harry peeked at one of the schedules, eyebrows arching.

"Hermione, the exams are ages away," he said, bemused.

"Ten weeks," Hermione snapped. "You realize we need to pass these exams to get into the second year? They're very important, I should have started studying a month ago, I don't know what's gotten into me . . ."

Unfortunately, the teachers seemed to be thinking along the same lines as Hermione. They piled so much homework on them that the Easter holidays weren't nearly as much fun as the Christmas ones. It was hard to relax with Hermione next to you reciting the twelve uses of dragon's blood or practicing wand movements.

Draco was unwilling to join the 'know-it-all mudblood', instead studying with Blaise, Pansy and the others.

Hermione had better luck gaining followers.

Hearing her year-mate complaining over exams the Gryffindor commons, Hermione had invited Ron Weasley to join them. The redhead had been hesitant at first, wondering if Hermione was messing with him - they hadn't exactly been on the best terms that year. Eventually, Weasley began to grudgingly respect Hermione and spent most of his free time in the library with them.

"I'll never remember this," Weasley burst out one afternoon, throwing down his quill. Hermione, who was helping Harry look up _'Dittany'_ in _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi_ , rolled her eyes.

Harry heard heavy footfalls nearby and craned his head to see through the stacks. "Hagrid!" he said, nudging Hermione. "What are you doing here?"

Hagrid shuffled into view, hiding something behind his back. He looked very out of place in his moleskin overcoat, his head of bushy hair brushing against the ceiling. "Jus' lookin'," he said in a shifty voice that got their interest at once. "An' what're you lot up ter?"

Hermione huffed loudly, her tight bun the only thing peeking up over a textbook. "We're trying to study, if you don't mind," she told him impatiently.

"Alright, but listen you two," Hagrid pointed at them. "Come an' see me later, I've got something to show ya," he shuffled away swiftly. The library was quiet again.

"What was that behind his back?" Harry wondered allowed. '

Weasley, who'd had enough of working, went to see what section Hagrid was in. He came back a minute later with a pile of books that he slammed down on the table. Madam Pince shot him a dirty look.

"Dragons!" the redhead whispered, earning Harry's immediate attention. "He was looking up stuff about dragons! Look at these: _Dragon Species of Great Britain and Ireland_ ; _From Egg to Inferno, A Dragon Keeper's Guide._ "

"Hagrid's always wanted a dragon, he told me so the first time I ever met him, " Harry said thoughtfully.

"But it's against the law," Weasley said, flipping through _A Dragon Keeper's Guide_. "Dragon breeding was outlawed by the Warlocks' Convention of 1709, everyone knows that. It's hard to stop Muggles from noticing us if we're keeping dragons in the back garden - anyway, you can't tame dragons, it's dangerous. You should see the burns Charlie's got off wild ones in Romania."

"Your brother works with dragons?!" Hermione asked. Weasley nodded proudly. "But there aren't wild dragons in Britain, right?"

"Of course there are," Ron scoffed, as though it was obvious. "The Ministry of Magic has a job hushing them up, I can tell you. Our kind has to keep putting spells on Muggles who've spotted them, to make them forget."

Hermione lifted her Potions tome, turning back to the correct chapter. "Well, whatever Hagrid's up too, it can't be good." she told them ominously. "But failing our exams would be worse, so back to work, boys!".

* * *

Against his better judgement, Harry had invited Draco along with. He about to conduct any sleuthing without Draco present; the blonde would hex him into oblivion.

"Hagrid, what in the world that?" Harry asked several hours later, eyes going wide.

Their curiosity getting the better of him, Harry dragged Hermione and Draco down to the half-giant's hut. They'd chatted amiably for a while until the half-giant went to make some tea. It was there in the fireplace, beneath the kettle that they could see a large, black egg.

"Ah," Hagrid hedged. "That's, er . . . about that -"

Harry crouched over the fire to get a closer look. "Where did you get it, Hagrid?"

"Won it," Hagrid coughed, fiddling nervously with his beard. "Las' night, I was down in the village havin' a few drinks an' got into a game o' cards with a stranger. Think he was quite glad ter get rid of it, ter be honest."

"But what are you going to do with it when it's hatched?" Hermione asked, sounding nervous.

"Well, I've bin doin' some readin'" Hagrid told them pulling a large book from under his pillow. "Got this outta the library, _Dragon Breeding for Pleasure and Profit._ It's a bit outta date, o' course, but it's all in here. Keep the egg in the fire, 'cause their mothers breathe on I em, see, an' when it hatches, feed it on a bucket o' brandy mixed with chicken blood every half hour. An' see here - this chapter's on how ter recognize diff'rent eggs - what I got there's a Norwegian Ridgeback. They're rare, them."

He acted very pleased with himself, although it was clear Draco disagreed. "Hagrid, you live in a wooden house," he deadpanned, but his words went unheeded.

"The dragon will grow if we let it stay here. In a month, it'll be bigger than his hut. Any one with even the slightest bit of knowledge on magical creatures knows that. Not to mention, Norwegian Ridgebacks are carnivores, have venomous fangs and are able to snort fire at the tender age of three weeks," Draco whispered to Harry. "What the hell is he thinking? That's right, he _wasn't_ thinking."

Harry had to agree, but knew that merely talking to the half-giant wouldn't do any good. Hagrid was too disillusioned to have any sense talked into him.

Hermione was hesitant on herself getting dragged into this, but she genuinely liked Hagrid, and would rather no one get hurt. Sitting at the small dining table as Hagrid crooned over the egg, the three conspired ways to talk their friend out of raising the illegal, deadly, fire-breathing, winged reptilian.

"We might need some help," Hermione conceded, itching to follow her instincts and inform a reliable adult.

The Hufflepuff wavered, noticing Hagrid's loving, maternal expression as he wiped a smudge off the eggshell. "Let's just wait a bit," Harry told her reluctantly. "Eventually, he'll realize it's a bad idea. Probably."

"Probably _not,"_ Draco grumbled.

The fire suddenly roared, the egg rattling dangerously. Hagrid - who had been leaning a bit too close - yelped as his eyebrows were singed. "Whoa!" the man laughed, nudging out an unnecessary log. "Little tyke's a feisty 'un, ain't they!" he said proudly.

Hermione pressed her lips together. "Maybe in the meantime, we can look up some fire-resisting spells. If the dragon doesn't burn down this house, Hagrid will," she said sagely. At the thought of more time in the library, Harry's head fell onto the tabletop in aggravation.

One breakfast a week or so later, Draco's bird, Regina, emerged from the flock of messenger owls and landed imperiously next to hisplate. Arching a brow, he fed her a bit of bacon and removed the message tied to Regina's leg. Hagrid had written only two words, his writing hurried and sloppy. _'It's hatching.'_

Grabbing Harry's attention, Draco made a show of cracking open a boiled egg with his fork, gaze meaningful. Harry nodded in understanding, expression grim.

The dragon had grown three times in length in just a week. Smoke kept furling out of its nostrils, little puffs of heat singing the walls and furniture. There were empty brandy bottles and chicken feathers all over the floor, as well as a patch of drying blood on the rug. The children learned quickly to avoid the dragon's pointed fangs.

"I've decided to call him Norbert," Hagrid told them, looking at the dragon with misty eyes.

"I keep telling you, she's a girl. The boys are immensely more sedate," Draco said sullenly, cradling a burnt hand.

Hagrid ignored him. "He really knows me now, watch. Norbert! Norbert! Where's Mommy?" he made clucking noises, slowly inching forward. Norbert hissed vehemently, causing Harry to rub his ears at the somehow intelligible vulgarity.

"He's lost his marbles," Hermione muttered.

"That's assuming he had any sanity to begin with," Draco snorted.

Harry took in a deep, calming breath. It had been unanimously decided that he would be the mediator. "Hagrid," Harry laid a hand on the man's beefy arm, "Give it two weeks and Norbert is going to be as long as your house. We can't keep going on like this."

The half-giant bit his lip, sniffling. "I - I know I can't keep him forever, but I can't jus' dump him, I can't."

* * *

The day Draco ended up in the Hospital Wing with an infected bite on his hand, Hermione finally caved.

"I'm going to a prefect," she told the boy, rising from her seat beside him in the Hospital Wing.

Draco looked relieved. "At least _someone's_ being responsible," he said, throwing his head back. "Too bad it took me nearly getting my hand bitten off for you to show some of that notorious Gryffindor initiative."

Hermione resisted sticking her tongue out at the boy, refraining only because he was 'in a delicate state'. As the girl rushed off to find Percy Weasley, Harry took her place next to Draco. He was lying in a bed with white linen sheets, and next to him was a table piled with pain potions. "It's not too painful, is it?"

"Only when I move it," Draco said with a grimace.

"Thanks for not telling your parents about Hagrid," Harry said quietly. "He's an idiot, I'll admit that, but after all the trouble he went through this Summer - "

Draco flapped a hand dismissively, moaning out in pain. "Shite, that hurt. Ugh, honestly, you _owe_ me. Hagrid owes me. _Dumbledore_ owes me. One word to father, and Hagrid would have been out of here faster than an Acromantula flees from a - "

Harry laughed. "Alright, I get the point. I'll make sure to let Hagrid knows he owes his job to a Malfoy. I'm sure he'll be thrilled."

* * *

 _May 26th, 1992_

Hermione didn't have to say much to convince Percy to take over from there.

The boy was astonished and horrified, but thrilled at the chance to get some recognition. Professor Kettleburn had a fondness for Percy, considering his older brother, Charlie, had been one of his star pupils.

Norberta had been quickly sedated and withdrawn from the hut by Kettleburn, who then proceeded to legally and officially pass off the Ridgeback to a Romanian habitat.

A sample of Norberta's fang venom and a written report from Madame Pomfrey confirmed that Draco had been consorting recently with the beast. A guilty admittance from the half-giant revealed that he had coerced the three into helping him with the category _XXXXX_ beast.

Despite informing a prefect of Hagrid's 'big problem', Harry, Hermione and Draco were given detentions for 'withholding information' and being 'accomplices to a crime'.

To be honest, they were lucky to still be in school after that. Fifty points were taken from both Gryffindor, Slytherin and Hufflepuff, putting them behind Ravenclaw for the House Cup. Unironically, Ravenclaw was the only house that treated them with any respect after that.

On the night of their detention, Draco was stoutly ignoring them.

He was practically an anathema in Slytherin house, the crass serpents prone to tripping him in the halls and cursing his school supplies to conduct lewd dances whenever Draco attempted to use them. Draco gave as good as he got, of course, but there was only so much one person could do against an entire house.

At eleven o'clock, they were lead outside into the cool spring chill.

"Follow me," Filch rasped, lighting a lantern. "I bet you'll think twice about breaking a school rule again, won't you, eh?" he said, leering at them. "Oh yes . . . hard work and pain are the best teachers, if you ask me. It's just a pity they let the old punishments die out. Hang you by your wrists from the ceiling for a few days, I've got the chains still in my office, keep 'em well oiled in case they're ever needed. Right, off we go, and don't think of running off, now, it'll be worse for you if you do."

Filch's steps were rather quick for his age, leaving Harry huffing to catch up.

As they crossed the dark grounds, the boy looked up, smelling rain. The moon was bright, but the incoming storm clouds were thick. Ahead, he could see the lighted windows of Hagrid's hut. A distant shout was heard, Hagrid's rumbling voice reaching them.

"Is that you, Filch? Hurry up, I want ter get started."

Their relief must have been imminent, because Filch was quick to comment. "I suppose you think you'll be enjoying yourself with that oaf? Well, think again - it's into the forest you're going, and I'm much mistaken if you'll all come out in one piece."

At this, Draco stopped dead in her tracks. "The forest?" he repeated in disbelief. Needless to say, the boy wasn't eager to wander into a dark forest, surrounded by unspeakable horrors and what-have-you. "'We can't go in there at night! There are all sorts of creatures in there . . . werewolves, centaurs. We could be killed!"

"That's your problem, isn't it?" Filch cackled.

Hagrid came striding toward them out of the dark, Fang at his heel. He was carrying his large crossbow, and a quiver of arrows hung over his shoulder. "Abou' time," he grumbled. "I've bin waitin' fer half an hour already. All right, lads? Lass?"

"I shouldn't be too friendly to them, Hagrid," Filch hissed. "They're here to be punished, after all."

"That's why yer late, is it?" Hagrid asked, frowning at Filch. "Bin lecturin' them, eh? 'Snot your place ter do that. Yeh've done yer bit, I'll take over from here."

Filch sniffed. "I'll be back at dawn . . . for what's left of them," he added mysteriously and turned back toward the castle.

"They can't possibly do this to us! It's called the forbidden forest for a reason!" Draco turned to Harry. An ominous howl sounded from within the vast greenery, causing the blonde to jump. "What was that?"

* * *

Thick trees blew about them, the moon just visible through the branches. Sticks and leaves crunched under their shoes as they followed the bright silver blood, which seemed to glow more brightly the farther they went.

Despite their distaste for one another, Draco had opted to remain with Hagrid, under the impression the larger man could protect him if something attacked. Harry and Hermione wandered off together, Fang whimpering behind them.

"Harry, I don't think I can go any farther . . . " Hermione breathed as something howled in the distance. A bead of nervous sweat was visible on her brow, brown eyes darting about the treeline in obvious terror.

"We'll be fine, we'll be fine," Harry muttered, clenching his wand tightly.

A few moments later he looked up in surprise, the first to hear soft whimpers of pain.

Hermione made a choked sound, hand rising to her mouth. The two inched forward, their breath taken. It was so beautiful, a blinding white color with slowly blinking silver-blue eyes. It's lithe legs were bent strangely, silver blood clotting on it's long mane.

"Who would try and kill . . . " Hermione whispered, just as a dark cloaked creature came crawling out of the shadows. The Gryffindor stumbled back, gaping in fear as the wraith bent over to drink the horse's blood.

The unicorn choked silently before dying, it's glow dimming. The shadows were overwhelming.

Harry screamed, pain burning through his skull, like a dozen daggers tearing through his consciousness. ** _Keep your eyes open!_** the voice inside screamed, excited and thrilled. The pain was too much. Harry fell back with a strangled cry, hitting his head on a hardened tree root.

A number of forest creatures cawed at the disturbance, the wind blowing roughly as the creatures eyes seemed to glow with an eerie red light. The wraith rose suddenly, silver dripping down his mouth, crimson eyes glinting in anger.

Hermione, coming out of her shock, lifted her wand. A bright golden light exploded out of the end. _"Confringo!"_

The wraith dodged away as the ground beneath him exploded, the leaves catching fire around the dead unicorn. It jerked again at the sound of hooves pounding against the forest floor, fleeing quickly.

Moments passed before Hermione's quivering face came into view above Harry, tears streaked on her cheeks as she shook Harry out of his stupor. "Harry . . . Harry, get up," she whispered. Realizing they had company, Harry lifted a hand to the back of his skull, nausea rising as he felt a streak of blood dripping down his neck. "Wrap this around your head," Hermione removed her scarf. His head wound stained the golden stripes crimson.

"Are you alright?" the centaur asked, pulling Harry and Hermione to their feet.

Hermione wrung her hands anxiously. "Who . . . who would be desperate enough to drink unicorn blood?" Her gaze was fixed on the motionless unicorn. The centaur didn't answer. The half-breed merely fixed his eyes onto the bleeding, puckered scar on Harry's forehead, his expression grim.

The Boy-Who-Lived leaned against his friend, feeling faint.

"I have an idea," Harry told Hermione quietly. "But you won't like it."

* * *

 ** _*_** _'_ _ **Three can keep a secret,**_ _if two of them are dead.'_ _ **-**_ Benjamin Franklin

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

Going with the winter theme, I simply thought 'a snowball's chance in hell' was funny. You can interpret it however you want. I'd like to think of the 'three can keep a secret' as a reference to Harry, Hermione and Draco's relationship. I'm certainly not going to kill them off as the rest of the idiom indicates, but perhaps some part of Harry still wonders if he can trust anyone but himself.

Theme of Poem: Purification


	12. The Devil You Know

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Chapter Twelve:**

 **The Devil You Know**

 _I was a_ _ **n**_ _gry with my fri_ _ **e**_ _nd; I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe: I told it not, my wrath did grow. And I watered it in fears, night and morning with my tears: And I sunned it with smiles, and with soft de_ _ **ce**_ _itful wil_ _ **es**_ _. And it grew both day and night. Till it bore apple_ _ **s**_ _bright. And my foe beheld_ _ **it**_ _shine, And he knew that it was mine. And into m_ _ **y**_ _garden stole, when the night had_ _ **br**_ _ought th_ _ **e**_ _pol_ _ **e**_ _; In the morning gla_ _ **d**_ _wa_ _ **s**_ _I to see; My foe outstretched beneath the tree._ *****

\- William Blake, _A Poison Tree_

* * *

 _Early June, 1992_

Exam week was simply brutal on the Hufflepuffs.

While half the grade was at the top of their classes, the other half was hopelessly behind. As late May approached, both groups began spending hours upon hours studying and revising.

The atmosphere in the commons was tense and frantic.

In years to come, Harry would never quite remember how he had managed to get through his exams when he half expected Voldemort to come bursting through the door at any moment.

Yet the days crept by, and as Harry walked past the third-floor corridor each morning, he could tell by the growls that Fluffy was still alive and well behind the locked door.

The weather had changed drastically in June and the castle became sweltering hot, especially in the crowded classroom where they did their written papers. They had been given special quills for the exams, which had been bewitched with an Anti-Cheating spell. They had practical exams as well, animating pineapples and turning mice into snuffboxes. Weasley had been practicing the transfiguration for days on his pet rat, whose toenails were now permanently a dull shade of silver.

Snape made them all nervous, breathing down their necks while they tried to remember how to make a Forgetfulness potion. Harry did rather well, despite spending the entire week ignoring the stabbing pains in his forehead.

As he tried to ignore his swirling thoughts, the first-year Hufflepuffs gratefully sat down at the dinner table, still reeling over their tests. Harry set his book bag on the floor, immediately scooping up a variety of diced fruits and making himself a boat of potatoes and gravy.

"I hear a few fifth years in Gryffindor tried to get around the Anti-Cheating quills," Ernie said conversationally, reaching for a slab of steak.

Zacharias hummed, sipping from glass of juice. "Did they get expelled?" he asked.

Ernie snorted. "When has Dumbledore ever let his precious Gryffindors get kicked out?"

The mood around the school had been awfully tense that past week, and having nearly every exam out of the way was like a breath of fresh air.

Harry was speaking with Wayne, debating a charm-related topic that cropped up the last hour. "There's no reason why we needed to study dancing pineapples, when will _that_ ever be useful?"

Wayne shrugged. "Distraction in a duel, maybe? Just make sure you have a pineapple on hand," he laughed.

Harry opened his mouth to toss back a remark when a startling pain erupted in his scar. Letting out a small gasp, he kneaded his palm roughly into his forehead, earning a few strange glances from his dorm-mates. "I'm fine," he forced out, grasping for his cup. He took a long sip of cool water and shook it off.

Later, entering the commons, Harry wondered if he had eaten something bad. An undeniable pressure had hit his stomach, the sensation of something writhing. Dismissing the thought, he slid down the slope and was immediately enveloped with a wave of unsteadiness.

He blinked away a few stars, murmuring a half-hearted apology to Justin, who he bumped into.

"You all right, Harry?" Justin asked, placing a hand on Harry's elbow as the raven-haired boy stumbled again.

His face had gone uncharacteristically pale, his mouth dry as he struggled to breath deeply. His bright green eyes were shaded, a glazed look to them. Harry gave a short nod, making a movement towards the couches. "Yes, I just need to . . . sit down."

The common room was filled with gasps, for instead of collapsing into the cushions, Harry's knees buckled beneath him. His breaths were coming sharp, his body suddenly wracked with convulsions. He made a choking noise, bile coming up from his throat.

His peers were immediately startled out of their bewildered shock as Harry's eyes rolled back into his head. He shuddered in pain, feeling as if his stomach was trying to force it's way through his esophagus. Lungs tight, vomit filling his throat and mouth, he was literally asphyxiating to death.

Wayne let out a strangled yelp, the common room going into a panicked uproar as he and an older boy fell to Harry's side. Prefect Truman removed any tight-fitting clothing from his chest and turning him onto his side. Harry's slender shoulders were quivering wildly, his skin feverish. Yellow, foaming bile slipped out of his mouth, eyes fluttering open to reveal bloodshot, dilated irises.

"Someone get Professor Sprout and Snape!" Gabriel shouted. "He's been poisoned!"

Cedric Diggory was the first one to break formation, pushing past the crowd. He dashed into the dungeons while Justin Finch-Fletchley bounded up the steps to find their Head of House.

The upperclassman slammed into the Potions classroom, face flushed. Finding the classroom empty, Cedric started yelling at the portrait of Gregory the Smarmy, who was guarding Snape's office. "I need to see Professor Snape, it's an emergency!"

The man in question stalked into the classroom from the store room, irritation clear on his face. "What is this commotion about, Mister Diggory?" Snape drawled in irritation.

"One of the first-years fell onto the floor in the common room began to convulse," Cedric explained in a hurry. "He's choking on his vomit and Prefect Gabriel thinks he's been poisoned - "

Snape's eyes widened significantly and he silenced Cedric with a twitch of his wand. A silvery patronus of a doe leapt away, heading towards the Hospital Wing. "Diggory, on the left hand cupboard you will see a box of bezoars. Grab one, and show me where the student is."

Cedric immediately flew to the cupboard, yanking open the doors and tearing through the boxes. Usually Snape would have admonished him for the mess, but this was clearly not a time for such idle formality.

"Who is it, Diggory?" Snape asked, snatching the bezoar from the boy's hands. The elder wizard stalked from the room, heading towards the basement.

"It's Harry," Cedric breathed heavily, struggling to keep up. Snape's stomach sunk deeply. "Harry Potter."

* * *

Harry came to slowly, sensations and thoughts arriving gradually through his pain-addled stupor. His lips were dry as he pulled them open, gasping for air. The taste and smell of potions immediately assaulted him, and he peeked open his eyes to see a blinding white.

"Oh, good! He's awake," someone murmured from above. Professor Sprout moved to hover above him. Her light brown hair was fussed and her clothing rumpled. The portly woman usually had a chipper smile on her face and a gleam to her eyes, but today, she was simply relieved

"You have impeccable luck, Mister Potter."

Harry jolted up, warm cotton sheets falling to expose his bare chest. He glanced wildly about the room, gaze coming to rest on a dark, blurry figure sitting to the side. It was Professor Snape.

Well, his presence wasn't the oddest thing about today, at least.

Harry took a deep breath, lifting a shaking hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes. Harry grappled for his glasses on the side table, knocking over a small container of candy. He stared at the filled table in bewilderment. Candy, cards, flowers -

"Ah, yes. Gifts, I presume, from your adoring fans," Snape drawled, lazily flicking his wand to clean the mess.

"Most of your fellow first-years gathered together to send their well-wishes. Hufflepuffs, Gryffindors, Miss Patil from Ravenclaw," Professor Sprout told him. She shot a glance at Snape. "Even a few from Slytherin. You had us quite worried for a while, dear boy."

Snape let out a vague protest at the use of _'we'._ The man was sitting primly on a chair by Harry's bed, expression unreadable. He seemed to have shed his regular day robes, leaving him in a simple long-sleeved button up and slacks.

". . . water," Harry croaked, voice raspy. Sprout grasped a pitcher and filled a glass, placing it into his hands. He shakily sipped, water splashing onto his lap. Throat relieved, he took in a deep breath. "What time is it?" Harry asked, peering around the drawn curtains to see the Hospital Wing both empty and dark.

"It's near midnight," Sprout supplied sadly. "You've been unconscious for nearly the whole day."

There was a silent beat, and Harry's memory caught up to him.

The dizziness, the stomach pain, the convulsions - he only remembered so much, assuming that he blacked out soon after falling to the floor. He vaguely recalled Wayne holding him down, calling his name, the other Hufflepuffs surrounding him. "I was poisoned," Harry breathed. It wasn't a question.

"Of course you were poisoned, Potter," Snape said callously. "You cannot go a day without causing trouble, can you?"

 _"Severus,"_ Sprout warned. "Be nice to the boy, he's been through quite the ordeal."

With a sigh, Severus produced a small vial of crystal clear liquid from his pocket. Snape stirred it about gently, allowing it to catch the flickering lantern light above Harry's head. If Harry squinted, he could see a light tint of pink upon it's surface. A rather sanguine color.

"This is my very last vial of Bloodroot Poison, a highly toxic and blatantly deadly mixture. Just last week, I was in possession of two vials of Bloodroot, each dose enough to kill a man in under a half hour. Even sooner, the younger and smaller it's victim." Snape looked Harry up and down quickly, crinkling his nose at the boy's minuscule figure. Self-conscious, Harry pulled up his covers, leveling the professor with a green glare.

"The other vial, I learned just today, had disappeared from my storage." Snape continued, dark eyes murderous. "Presumably, stolen. I should suspect the culprit, whomever that may be," he sounded as if he knew exactly who the culprit was. "Was the very same person to deceive the kitchen-elves into tampering with your food. Dumbledore, of course, personally interrogated the elves. He discovered at least two of them under a dark spell.

"Needless to say, your intended assassination was foiled. I arrived on the scene mere moments before your untimely death, and managed to coax a bezoar down your throat before your stomach could upheave itself and cause you to drown in your own bile." He sounded a bit too thrilled at the thought.

Professor Sprout sent Snape a sharp look. "Yes, you should be thankful for the quick thinking of your housemates," she told him. "It was Justin Finch-Fletchley that found me and Cedric Diggory that fetched Professor Snape."

"As I said, Mister Potter. You have impeccable luck." The professor gave leveled him a haughty, uncaring stare.

After a beat, Harry finally spoke, green eyes narrowed. "I suppose I appreciate you not letting me die, professor."

Snape looked a bit vexed, lips curling in anger as he searched Harry's words for an ounce of insincerity. "I suppose near-death experiences hardly make you flinch, do they, Potter?" he spat, standing up stiffly.

"Severus!"

Snape let out a long breath, stomach clenching in repressed anger. "No matter," he said finally. "I hope you do not make a habit of encouraging such things. Merlin knows you cause enough trouble as it is."

Harry stared at his professor, not mistaking the little quirk of the man's lips. Was Snape . . . teasing him?

After a beat, Harry let out a snort, visibly relaxing back into his sheets. "I wasn't aware that you cared, professor. But I make no promises." Snape left then, leaving Professor Sprout with Harry.

The woman chastised him for disrespecting the Potion's Master but was secretly amused by their unrelenting rivalry. She fetched Madam Pomfrey from her office and the nurse returned with a tray of potions.

She left him with strict instructions and disappeared just as quickly as she appeared.

* * *

"You're a right bastard, you know that?" Draco's voice rang through the Hospital Wing as he approached Harry's bed with long, apprehensive steps. His flaxen hair was lacking it's usual shine, his robes haphazardly donned. The blonde hardly hesitated before dropping Harry's bag on the floor and enveloping the small boy in a tight hug. Harry was startled out of his ceiling tile counting when Draco leaned over the thin bed, his shoulder muffling Harry's mouth.

"I hate you. I really do," Draco said darkly, his eyes shut tight. It would have been a bit more convincing if Draco wasn't currently crushing Harry into his chest.

"Sorry?" Harry murmured, patting the blonde's back in comfort.

Draco scoffed, suddenly pulling away to sit on the chair by Harry's bed. "All everyone said was that you'd been poisoned, you collapsed in the common rooms, you had to be carried away - you make me think you were dead, and all you can say is _sorry?_ It's a good thing mum isn't here, or she'd _kill_ you!"

Harry feigned horror. "I think I'd prefer Bloodroot over your mother, any day."

Draco's expression contorted. "Oh, please. Bloodroot Poison is not a merciful death, Harry."

"Trust me, I know. I'd still chose it over your mum."

Draco rolled his eyes, a reluctant smile on his lips as he passed over Harry's missed homework assignments.

"Cheeky arse," Draco murmured, eyes a lit with something more radiant than tears. "You know she'll smother you with love once the school year ends?"

The brunette smiled slowly. "I'm looking forward to it."

* * *

Despite Madam Pomfrey's protests, Harry was up and prepared for class that noon.

His throat was raw, and tasted of something sour. His stomach felt a bit tight, and Harry took a bit of stomach reliever before lunch. He sat beside Wayne, nervously chewing on a bit of bread. The Hufflepuffs had been startlingly subdued for the last few days, their gazes discreetly on Harry as he went through his daily motions. Nearly every student at Hufflepuff table now had a wand out, thoroughly examining their food for tampering; Harry found it slightly touching that his friends wouldn't allow him to eat until they were sure his soup was clear.

"Are you sure you're up for exams?" Wayne asked him concernedly. "You look like shite."

Harry rolled his eyes. "I'm excellent," he said through clenched teeth. "Just dandy. Quiz me on the goblin rebellion of 1612?"

After one hour of answering questions about batty old wizards who'd invented self-stirring cauldrons and obscure goblin wars, the Hufflepuffs were almost as raucous with their relief as the Gryffindors. "I'm so glad that's over," Wayne exhaled. "Even without Binns droning on, I just about fell asleep. How many times can they ask _'describe this event in one or more inches'_ before it gets boring?"

"I wish they'd asked more on the 1637 Werewolf Code of Conduct or the uprising of Elfric the Eager; I didn't even get to psycho-analyze Elfric's reasonings for killing the wife of Heinrich the Hardfisted," Hermione pouted, catching up to them.

They had flocked out onto the sunny school grounds and collapsed in the shade of a tree.

The Weasley twins and Lee Jordan were tickling the tentacles of a giant squid, which was basking in the warm shallows. Blissfully oblivious, Wayne laid out on the grass, shutting his eyes. "This is glorious," he stretched, opening one eye to see Harry rubbing at his forehead. "You know, you could look more cheerful, Harry. We've got a week before we find out how badly we've done, there's no need to worry yet."

"That's not what I'm worried about," he muttered.

 ** _I'm doing the best I can to stop the pain,_** the voice mentioned quietly, it's first appearance since his time in the Forbidden Forest. **_It's taking up a lot of energy._**

Harry let out a shaking breath. "Something feels wrong," he told Hermione.

"Dumbledore has it under control," she said back, voice distilled with false confidence. "I - I'm sure everything will be alright."

The boy wasn't so sure.

* * *

To anyone who looked, Quirrell's office was nothing spectacular.

Tall bookshelves lined the walls, a worn carpet under their feet and a variety of exotic artifacts and tomes piled on his desk. If one dared, they could peek around the black curtain covering what looked to be a window pane, but it was, in fact, a doorway. Currently, wards were in place, blocking the entrance and diverting whoever might approach. Silencing charms were layered by the dozens to block the Defense teacher's bloodcurdling screams.

The connection between Voldemort and Quirrell was the only control the Dark Lord had in this form, and he despised it.

The lack of control enraged him. Control had always been something Voldemort desired, even before his transformation. With control came power, and those with weaker wills would always flock to the one in power. It was natural order that the more powerful being was in control. Power and control always went hand-in-hand.

That was the first thing he ever learned, and it had never left him.

After ten long, grueling minutes, Quirrell collapsed onto the floor in a mess of blood, tears and whimpered apologies. "Pathetic," Voldemort spat. "A disappointment. You are lucky to still be in one piece, Quirinus."

Quirrell nodded frantically, utterly cowed. Pain wracked his every muscle, and he writhed on the floor in an attempt to climb to his feet. "You . . . you are a merciful Lord. I will not f - fail you, not again. The Stone will soon be ours, I swear it!"

Voldemort let out a barking laugh, guttural and malicious, causing his host to flinch violently.

"Yes, I am merciful. But know this, if you fail me, death will be a sweet release after what I will do to you. That, I solemnly swear."

* * *

 _September 4th, 1991_

Sweat rolled down his body, plastering his nightclothes to his skin. Harry dreamed, blood dripping down his forehead and painting his face red.

 _"Not Harry, not Harry, please, not Harry . . . " the red-haired lady pleaded desperately._ _Her executioner sneered nastily._ _"Stand aside, you silly girl. Stand aside, now!"_ _"Not Harry, please no, kill me instead," she begged, body quivering all over._ _Behind her, a boy was wailing, screaming, calling out for his mother._ "Leave her alone!" _Harry screamed back, silver tears dripping down his cheeks, cascading into his mouth and down his chin. It was Unicorn blood - no,_ wait. _It was bile._ _He choked on the liquid, falling to his knees. His eyes rolled back into his head._ _The stranger's voice grew sharp with impatience as he raised a gnarled stick in his pale hand. "This is my last warning - "_ _"Not Harry! Please, have mercy. Have mercy! Please, save my son!"_ _Cruel green light flashed - the exact color of Harry's eyes - and Lily's_ _body fell._ _He reached towards her, gasping as her body erupted in bright orange flames._ _**'You don't need them, Harry.'**_ _Maybe the fire would surround him._ _Maybe the flames would burn through his body, creating a hot, heady warmth like the embrace of a mother._ _**'You don't need**_ **anyone** _**.'**_ _Harry looked down as the heat disappeared. In the place of his mother_ _was a glimmering stone, red as blood._ _Red as the Dark Lord's cruel, laughing eyes._ **_. . . Wake up, Harry . . ._**

Harry jolted, green eyes fluttering open.

His body hurt like hell and a stab of pain went through his head, stemming from the red-rimmed scar above his eye. The last thing he remembered was falling into an uneasy sleep, the voice in his head chanting _**something is wrong.**_

Harry rose to his feet shakily before getting the sudden urge to vomit. He had fallen to his knees beside a stone column, dry heaving until he could catch his breath. "Disgusting," came a voice to his left. The boy jerked upwards, gasping.

"Y - you?" Harry asked.

Quirrell turned to face him. The Boy-Who-Lived stepped forward shakily, glancing at the large, gold-framed which took up the majority of the chamber. "Me," Quirrell replied jovially, although his smile was cold. "It's about time you woke up, Mister Potter. You'd been having some awful nightmares - dreaming about your mother, were you?"

Harry clenched his fists. "What's it to you?"

Quirrell laughed. "Oh, there's that Gryffindor fighting spirit. When you were sorted into _Hufflepuff_ of all the places, I had to wonder. But nothing is quite what it seems, eh?"

Harry's eyes narrowed at the cutthroat amusement in Quirrell's tone. "You - you're the one whose called all this trouble, weren't you? You poisoned me?"

"Yes," Quirrell whispered. "My job would be so much easier if you'd just _died_ like you were supposed to." he cleared his throat. "I was punished greatly by my Lord for that."

"Voldemort?"

Quirrell's expression hardened. Snapping his fingers, ropes sprang out of thin air and wrapped themselves tightly around Harry's body, yanking him against the wall. "You dare speak the Dark Lord's name?" he hissed, summoning Harry's wand. "You, a mere child, know nothing of my Lord's magnificence, of his sheer magical prowess - "

Harry coughed, the ropes squeezing his chest cavity.

"Magical prowess?" he rasped. "Your precious _Dark Lord_ can't even kill a baby!"

The wizard let out another hissing sound, his neck arching angrily. "Silence! You're too nosy to live, Potter. Rather like your dear parents, actually; too meddling for your own good."

" _I'm_ meddling? Your troll nearly _killed_ Hermione, and all for what?"

"Distraction, of course. It's too bad Snape got in my way. He's gone soft since our Lord's disappearance. He's disliked me from the beginning of my tenure, even before my trip to Albania. This year, he was quite a bit more proactive with his attempts of thwarting me. Unfortunately, his constant barrage of threats were - are - nothing compared to my Lord's temperament."

He whipped around to face the mirror, his purple turban tilting slightly. "Now wait quietly, Potter. I need to examine this interesting mirror. This mirror is the key to finding the Stone," Quirrell monologued, tapping his way around the frame. "Trust Dumbledore to come up with something like this, but he's in London. I'll be far away by the time he gets back."

"What's so important about that mirror?" Harry blurted.

Quirrell scowled. "Dumbledore has compiled this elaborate labyrinth, in an attempt to _protect_ the Philosopher's Stone. I killed a fucking troll for this - a damn mirror." Harry struggled with the bindings, the ropes around his torso loosening with Quirrell's distraction.

"Now, I see the Stone; I'm presenting it to my master, but where is it?" the man growled in frustration.

"Your master - is he on the grounds?" Harry asked, forcing down his steadily rising panic. "That was him in the Forbidden Forest, I presume?"

Quirrell stiffened, and for a moment, fear flashed in his eyes. "He is with me wherever I go," he said quietly. "I met him when I traveled around the world. A foolish young man I was then, full of ridiculous ideas about good and evil. Lord Voldemort showed me how wrong I was. _'There is no good and evil, there is only power, and those too weak to seek it'._ Since then, I have served him faithfully, although I have let him down many times. He has had to be very hard on me." Quirrell shivered suddenly. "He does not forgive mistakes easily. When I failed to steal the stone from Gringotts, he was most displeased. He punished me, and decided he would have to keep a closer watch on me . . . "

Harry remembered his trip to Diagon Alley, wondering how could he have been so stupid. He'd seen Quirrell there that very day, shaken hands with him in the Leaky Cauldron. The man had probably broken into Gringotts only moments after he and Hagrid had left the bank. He almost laughed. The man was searching for an artifact that was never here in the first place! What was Dumbledore trying to accomplish?

"I don't understand! Is the Stone inside the mirror? Should I break it? What does this mirror _do_?" Quirrell cursed under his breath. "How does it work? Help me, Master!"

"Use the boy . . ." a high voice rasped. "You brought him here for a reason, _use the boy!_ "

Quirrell rounded on Harry, eyes wild. "Yes, Potter - come here." He clapped his hands once, and the ropes binding Harry fell off. Harry slowly rose to his feet, desperately wishing he had a weapon. "Look in the mirror and tell me what you see."

Harry walked toward him warily, wiping his sweaty hands against quavering thighs.

Quirrell moved close behind him, his front nearly pressing into Harry's back. The boy tried not to choke on the funny smell that seemed to come from the man's turban. He saw his reflection, pale and scared-looking at first. His reflection brushed the hair from his eyes, revealing a flawless forehead. Behind him was a hoard of people - a woman with bright red hair, a handsome man with knobbly knees and glasses.

It was his family.

"Well?" Quirrell asked impatiently. "What do you see?"

"My parents," Harry said softly. "They're smiling at me. They're . . . proud of me."

Quirrell ground his teeth. "Useless, maudlin drivel," he spat. "Get out of the way."

The high voice spoke again. "No! Let me speak to him, face-to-face."

Panic entered the professor's voice. "M - master! You are not strong enough!"

There was a pause, before a deep, shaky breath was taken. "I have strength enough, for this . . ."

Quirrell snapped his fingers as an afterthought. Harry struggled, but he couldn't move a muscle.

Petrified, he watched as the man began to unwrap his turban, revealing flashes of bald, pasty skin. The turban fell away, Quirrell's head looking strangely small without it. Harry's gaze shifted to the Mirror of Erised, and a strangled noise slipped from his lips. Where there should have been a back to Quirrell's head, there was a face, the most terrible face Harry had ever seen. It was chalk white with glaring red eyes and slits for nostrils, like a snake. It was Lord Voldemort.

"Harry Potter," the creature whispered, eyeing his small figure up and down. "See what I have become?" Voldemort said, voice scathing. "Mere shadow and vapor. . . I have form only when I can share another's body, but there have always been those willing to let me into their hearts and minds. And once I have the Elixir of Life, I will be able to create a body of my own! Unicorn blood has strengthened me, these past weeks. You saw faithful Quirrell drinking it for me in the forest - "

"You drank unicorn blood for him, Quirrell?" Harry interrupted. "Don't you know what that _does_ to you?"

Quirrell faltered. "It's . . . it's all for my Lord!"

"You've cursed yourself!" the boy snorted. "A disposable body. You can't possibly think you'll come out of this alive?"

Voldemort's voice echoed through the chamber. "Quiet! Do not listen to him, he is but a boy! Don't be a fool, Potter," the parasite snarled. "Better save your own life and join me, or you'll meet the same _sticky_ end as your parents," the beast paused, as though thoughtful. "You know, they died begging me for mercy. And I, the merciful Lord I am, spared them the greatest mercy possible. If you so please, I could give you the same generous honor."

Harry's nose flared. "I don't _need_ mercy, Voldemort."

"Do not speak my name," Voldemort hissed, visibly restraining his anger. "You arrogant whelp!"

"Narcissa told me you used to be strong! Intelligent, and powerful," he pushed on. "What _happened?"_

The Dark Lord's lips stretched into a heinous bastardization of a smile. "Narcissa Malfoy, eh? Seems the poor orphan boy found a mother figure."

"Yes," Harry admitted. "Yes I have. Before her, I had no one. I _killed_ my Aunt and Uncle for treating me worse than a house-elf. I was abandoned at an orphanage and left ignorant of . . . _everything_ until I met Hagrid. Dumbledore has hurt me. Muggles have hurt me. _You_ have hurt me. But I don't let my hate and my fear govern me."

"Such sentimentality, but perhaps that's to be expected from a _Hufflepuff,"_ the man was trying to rile him up.

"Did you know, I was almost a Slytherin? The Sorting Hat recognized something in me - it noticed the darkness, but it also noticed the _light_ ," he let out a shaky breath. "It told me I could be _great,_ and I wonder - you were great once too. Terrible, but great. But look at yourself now," Harry pointed at the mirror.

"You're _nothing_ right now. You're a wraith, a _parasite,_ desperately leeching the life away from any weak-willed fool you meet - "

Red eyes narrowed dangerously. "You want power, boy? I will show you _power!"_ with arch of Quirrell's body and a throaty scream, the body fell it's knees. His face contorted and his body writhed until his eyes glowed red and his skin turned scaly.

Harry scrambled away. "What have you done to him?" he spat.

"He was unstable," the man said dismissively, stretching his arms. There was still a faint tremor in them. "And, as you said, _cursed."_

"You - you - " Harry threw his hands up. "That's just it. Endless torture, deception, killing; it hasn't helped you one bit. That tyranny _ruined_ you. What's the point in ruling over a nation if no one in it respects you? Even your own followers hate you for the suffering you've caused. The Malfoys, Snape, Quirrell - if you wanted loyalty, you should have commissioned Hufflepuffs, rather than self-preserving asylum patients," Harry said wryly, only slightly amazed he was still alive.

It seemed to Harry that the man had made a mistake, retaining full dominance over Quirrell's body. His body was . . . mortal. And _exhausted._ For that amazing reason, the Dark Lord was listening.

Perhaps having a body really would benefit the Dark Lord's mentality - and benefit Harry, as well.

The boy took a tentative step forward. "Listen. I - I don't disagree with some of your doctrines. I _want_ there to be equal opportunities for all magical creatures, but that includes muggleborns. One of my best friends is a muggleborn, and Quirrell can - _could -_ tell you she's the brightest witch of her age. But she's been ostracized and sneered at, simply because she was raised differently. She doesn't deserve that. She doesn't deserve to be treated like _filth._ I don't want any more wizarding children to be left parent-less, left to unloving people who don't - _can't_ understand. I don't want children to be taught that having magic - whether it's inherently Dark or Light - is wrong. I don't want to be called _freakish_ ever again," he said quietly. "Is that so awful?"

"It's - it's not," the Dark Lord murmured. "You have many of the same ideals I once held."

"So, why not have them again?"

The man grimaced, but did not respond. Harry called that a success, regardless. "You know, the stone you've been searching for?" Harry threw in his last card. "It's not here. It's never been here." Fury grew once more in the man's eyes. "I have it," he finished quickly. "I've had it since the start of the year, when Hagrid brought me to Diagon Alley. He got drunk in the Leaky and left me to wander around alone - irresponsible, I know, but that's not the point. I _took_ it from him. All because the voice in my head," he tapped his scar. "Told me to."

"The voice in your - never mind. Where is the stone now?" the man demanded, voice raspy. "You will give it to me!"

"I will," Harry acquiescenced. "If you promise not to kill me, or my friends. You have to consider my points, and try - really _try -_ to change _._ The Philosopher's Stone will save you; you will be reborn, into a new, _greater_ being.

"You'll live forever, so why not make your endless life _worth it?"_

* * *

 ***** ** _'Necessity breeds_** _attempt.'_

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

'The devil you know' is the philosophy Harry is relying on when it comes to interacting with the Dark Lord. They hate the same things, so why not bond over their similarities?

Voldemort's need for immortality pushes him to make foolish, desperate attempts. The idiom is not a typical one; it's a combination of 'necessity is the mother of invention' and 'familiarity breeds contempt'.

Theme of Poem: Wrath


	13. Swan Song

**Cinders and Scars**

 **Part I**

* * *

Disclaimer: All rights belong to J.K. Rowling, voiding that of original content and characters.

* * *

 **Epilogue:**

 **Swan Song**

 _I'v **e** fough **t** all my inner wars and I'm a champion for once. Your whispers bleed through me and honestly, it haunts It haunts me in my silent slumber and my sweet arising. All that you're saying is genuine and surprising. I will remain strong and vigilant **t** hro **u** gh it all. I'm frozen inside with un **b** ea **r** able appall, resilience and zealo **u** sness shields me from **t** h **e** dark forces. Won't you save me from the sorrow that courses inside me - so my fretful soul is set free like a hundred horses **? ***_

 _-_ JW Earnings _, My Demons_

* * *

Dumbledore's office was silent.

Harry rubbed nervously at the bandages along his arm. His body had been cut and bruised by an enchanted rope from the Mirror room, giving the impression that Harry had least _attempted_ to fight off the Dark Lord.

The Headmaster's office was a very large and haphazardly decorated room, filled with the sounds of odd ticks and chimes. A great number of magical instruments whirred on the long shelves, occasionally emitting little puffs of smoke. The walls were covered with portraits of old headmasters and headmistresses, all of whom were resting in their frames.

A sudden, pain-filled croak came from behind him. Standing on a golden perch was a decrepit-looking bird, his feathers the color of mottled autumn leaves. The creature stared balefully at Harry, clicking it's beak weakly.

"Harry?" Came a soft voice. Harry looked up at Dumbledore, the man's bright eyes shielded by hooded eyelids. The Headmaster was dressed in an eyesore of a robe- fabric the exact color of a ripe persimmon. "Would you care for a lemon drop? Or a spot of tea, perhaps?"

Harry, too nervous to be anything but polite, allowed his hands to be filled with a warm cup of tea. He breathed in the earthy scent, letting it calm him. "Thank you, sir," he said quietly, taking a sip. "It's delicious."

The headmaster plastered on a genial smile. "Why, thank you, my boy! It's of my own brew, and I've added in a bit of a - let's say, relaxant. You've been through quite the ordeal, child."

Somehow, that phrase seemed familiar. He'd been through quite a good many ordeals in his short life, he was becoming a bit numb to them.

"I guess. Is that what I'm here to talk about? Quirrell and Vol - You-Know-Who, I mean?"

The man shook his head. "Do not be afraid to say his name, child. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself."

Oh, Harry wasn't too terribly afraid of the Dark Lord. After seeing him complacent and so utterly _human,_ the wizard's bravado wasn't nearly as effective on the boy any longer. It had been amusing to lead Quirrell - well, the body of Quirrell, at least - into the Hufflepuff dorms, force him to squeeze through the barrel entrance and awkwardly wait in the commons while Harry procured the Stone. Just a bit of fun to make up for all the pain Voldemort had caused Harry that past year.

"Many thanks, Potter," Voldemort had smiled at him, eyes glinting cruelly. "We will meet again. _Stupefy!"_

Harry didn't remember much after that.

He was found hours later in Quirrell's office, bound and tied, his scar bleeding viciously.

Alarms had apparently been triggered when Quirrell had reached the Mirror of Erised, and Dumbledore returned just in time to witness Voldemort apparating from the front gates of the school - not without a few parting words, of course.

The declaration of _Harry Potter is mine!_ had shaken Dumbledore to his core. Unable to track the immortal Dark Lord, Dumbledore quickly called for a search of their little Hufflepuff Savior.

Well, he'd been found, and the morning had been a whirlwind of activity. He was quickly loosing his patience with the headmaster.

"Sir, why am I here? I've already explained to you, to the Aurors, to the press - _everyone,_ it seems - what happened. I'm fine, the Stone was never there to begin with, Voldemort has once more been thwarted - "

White hair sprang wildly as Dumbledore shook his head. "No, Harry, he has not. He is still out there somewhere, perhaps looking for another body to share. Yet not being truly alive, he cannot be killed. He left Quirrell to die; he shows just as little mercy to his followers as his enemies."

"What happened to Professor Quirrell?" Harry asked, frowning. "I know that Voldemort had - _latched_ onto him, was living on the back of his skull, really. But somehow, he was able to take full control - "

"This was very dark magic, indeed, Harry," the headmaster said sternly. "I believe remaining attached to Voldemort was slowly driving Quirrell into irreversible insanity. And the shorter his tether was to rationality, the easier Voldemort was able to retain control. Like many before him, enthralled by grandiose visions and ambition, he was taken in by Voldemort's assertion of power and was unable to resist succumbing. By relinquishing a part of himself to Voldemort's control, Quirrell lost apart of himself. He was dying, to say the least. I can only hope that once Voldemort vacates that body, he will give Quirinus the proper burial he deserves."

Harry highly doubted it. The Dark Lord didn't seem terribly _considerate_ in that way. "There was nothing I could do to stop him? Stop Quirrell, or stop Voldemort?"

"You delayed his return to power, and that certainly is _something_ \- and if he is delayed again, and again, why, he may never return to power."

Harry was silent. "I suppose you expect me to be the one to _delay_ him, again and again?"

Dumbledore smiled. "You've done a fine job of it so far, my boy," he gave a heady sigh. "However, there are some things I cannot tell you. Not today. Not now. You will know, one day - just put it from your mind for now, Harry. When you are older - I know you hate to hear this, most children do - but when you are _ready_ , you will know."

 ** _Fond of keeping secrets from you, isn't he?_** the inner voice sneered, much more vocal than it once was.

"Sir, about this summer - "

"Oh, yes. The more pertinent future. I believe you're referring to your rather 'up-in-the-air' guardianship?"

Harry arched a brow. "I know that Hagrid, somehow, managed to get my papers from Mother Magdalena, at the orphanage. I - I spent the rest of the summer, and the winter holidays, with Draco's family, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy -"

Dumbledore nodded gravely "Yes. My teachers report you have become increasingly close with the boy."

"Well - yes." Harry said slowly, green eyes narrowed in suspicion. "He's become a good friend of mine."

Dumbledore's eyes had gained it's twinkle as he leaned forward, voice consoling. "I'm sure you've noticed, Harry, that some of your fellow peers have been raised to uphold some . . . less than _fair_ views. Many wizarding families are considered traditionalists, with their pureblood supremacy and crude opinions on muggleborns and non-magic folk in general. If I recall, another good friend of yours is Hermione Granger - some have noted that Mister Malfoy and his cohorts have been antagonistic towards her, despite their mutual friendship with you.

"As a half-blood, raised in a Muggle community - you must feel unsafe, surrounded by such bias?" Dumbledore asked, grandfatherly concern etched across his wrinkled features. "Draco's father and mother are trained adults and can be leagues more dangerous than a schoolboy."

Harry was thinking very, very quickly. "Are you asking, sir," he started. "If I feel threatened by the Malfoys, simply because of my lack of magical background? A predicament, I might add, that you are solely responsible for? Why - why do you even _care?_ "

Dumbledore blinked at the non sequitur, his face coloring pink. "Harry," he said gently. "I care very much about your safety, Harry, just as any other student. I'm sure that if you feel threatened, I could place you with another wizarding family - the Weasleys, perhaps. You've studied with their youngest son, I believe, in the past few weeks - "

"Why the sudden concern with my well-being?" Harry asked suddenly. "You left me with an unloving family for _seven years,_ without a single word, and then when they died . . . I was sent to an orphanage! Where were you then? Why was I left _alone?"_ He'd begun trembling, his scar burning lightly with the force of these emotions.

Dumbledore was holding his composure well. "Harry . . . you must understand that you are a very important figure in wizarding history. Your safety has always been of utmost importance to me - I placed you with your relatives for your safety, separate from the Wizarding world for your health and protection. Famous before you can walk and talk! Dark wizards pining to . . . to, well, severely hurt you, at least. It was done for your own good, my boy, can't you see this? Leaving you at the orphanage was, admittedly, rather cruel - but you had just suffered a tragedy, I was unsure that uprooting you so early would be wise - "

Harry stood, lips pressed together to keep from spouting profanities at the meddling old wizard. "You had no _right_ to decide such things for me! Because of your _stupid decisions_ , I was placed into an abusive home, with Muggles who spared no ill word towards me. I _hated_ it there, I wanted to _kill myself_ just so I could be with my parents and _away_ from my Aunt and Uncle! But instead - " **_you killed them._**

The boy clammed up, shoving a fist into his mouth. "I finally find a _home,_ with people who care about me . . . and you try to tear everything away from me. I don't - "

"Sit _down,_ Mr. Potter!" The portraits were scolding, up in arms to protect the old coot. "This is no way to speak to your headmaster!"

Harry heart was pounding in his chest, green eyes burning. Dumbledore's gaze was fixed on Harry's, seeing how the boy's eyes welled with tear. Dumbledore finally spoke. "I . . . I sincerely apologize, Harry. I am so very sorry for the pain I've caused. There is a reason for everything, I promise. You are simply . . . not ready to hear them."

The boy took in a shaky breath. **_This fool is no longer worth your time._**

"I - I need to go, professor," Harry said, straightening his shoulders. "It's almost dinner time, and - if it's _alright with you,"_ he scowled lightly. "I'd really like to spend it with my friends."

Dumbledore lifted a hand, face grave. "Of course, Harry," he sighed. "Once again - "

He didn't want to hear it. "Good evening, sir," Harry cut him off, leaving the room without another word.

The headmaster simply sat by himself for a long few minutes, lifting a wrinkled hand to pet Fawkes' head. "It seems you are ready to be reborn, my dear," he said quietly, leaning forward to watch. With a ruffle of wings and a relieved chirp, the bird burst into orange flames, a wave of heat cascading over Dumbledore's cheeks. A shower of ash cascaded onto the tray. Seconds later, a tiny, wrinkled head poked out with a squeak.

Dumbledore smiled sadly.

* * *

Harry made his way down to the end-of-year feast alone that night. It was decorated in the Ravenclaw colors of blue and bronze to celebrate their winning the house cup. A huge banner showing the Ravenclaw eagle covered the wall behind the High Table.

When Harry walked in there was a sudden hush, and then everybody started talking loudly at once. He slipped into a seat between Wayne and Zacharias, head held high. Fortunately, Dumbledore arrived moments later. The babble died away.

"Another year gone!" Dumbledore declared loudly, wand at his throat. "And I must trouble you with an old man's wheezing waffle before we sink our teeth into our delicious feast. What a year it has been! Hopefully your heads are all a little fuller than they were. You have the whole summer ahead to get them nice and empty before next year starts," a smattering of laughter echoed through the hall.

"Now, as I understand it, the house cup here needs awarding, and the points stand thus: In fourth place, Gryffindor, with three hundred and thirty points; in third, Hufflepuff, with four hundred exactly; Slytherin has four hundred and twenty-six and Ravenclaw, four hundred and thirty - one." A great cheer broke out from the Ravenclaw table.

The Slytherins glowered moodily. The older students were glaring at Draco, as if blaming him for their loss. Which, while not wrong, was a bit unfair. Draco just sighed.

"Yes, Yes, well done, Ravenclaw," said Dumbledore. "However, recent events must be taken into account." The room went very still. The Ravenclaws' smiles faded a little.

"Ahem," Dumbledore coughed. "I have a few last-minute points to dish out. To Harry Potter." The room went deadly quiet. "For pure nerve, cunning and determination, I award Hufflepuff house sixty points."

The din was deafening. Those who could add up while yelling themselves hoarse knew that Hufflepuff now had four-hundred and sixty points. Someone standing outside the Great Hall might well have thought some sort of explosion had taken place, so loud was the noise that erupted from the usually demure Hufflepuff table.

Draco stood up before his sulking year-mates to clap as Harry disappeared under a pile of people hugging him.

"Which means," The headmaster called over the applause. "We need a little change of decoration. Congratulations to Hufflepuff House for gaining the House Cup!" He clapped his hands. In an instant, the navy hangings became a lovely honey and the bronze became black; the huge Ravenclaw bird vanished and a strong honey-badger took its place. Professor Sprout was in tears.

When he sat down, the man met Harry's bright gaze, inclining his goblet to the boy.

 ** _Bloody man sure knows how to put on a display,_** Voldemort spoke in his mind.

Harry, his body trembling from unknown emotions, simply raised his face to the bewitched sky and forced a smile.

* * *

 ** _* 'Et tu, Brute?'_** \- Julius Caesar

* * *

 **Notes:**

Significance:

A swan song is described as being an artist's last piece of work, or the finale to a show.

The Latin sentence translates into Julius Caesar's last words as he is - literally - stabbed in the back by a friend. 'Even you, Brute?'. Harry is now a traitor, to both himself and to his allies. He isn't quite sure what to do with himself, but unable to go back on his decisions, he will simply have to live with the life he's wrought.

Theme of Poem: Vigilance

* * *

 **End Notes:**

Thank you everyone who managed to make it to the end! Apologies for any spelling or grammatical errors. This is partway beta'd by the delightful Archive of Our Own user, 'wrathfulgoddess', so any inconsistencies are entirely my fault. I also got a bit lazy with my 'significance' and 'reasonings', so if you having any questions, I'm always available to talk.

I'd love to take any comments or critique, and if this gets good reception, I wouldn't mind writing a part two.


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